The little river was flowing laughing happily, planting fertility in its steps and carrying in its palms generosity. It ran between the grasses, singing its songs, scattering sweetness, green joy. It watered the withering flowers so their smiling lips brightened, watered the thirsty trees so their branches danced, and embraced the dead earth so life returned to it. The generous river continued the journey of joy and giving, not favoring anyone or expecting reward. On its side was a small, hard-hearted rock that was annoyed by his much work and addressed him: Why do you waste your water in vain?
The river said: I don’t waste my water in vain, but I bring life and joy to the earth and trees. She said: What do you gain from that? The river said: I gain great happiness when I benefit others. She said: I don’t see any happiness in that. The river said: If you gave once, you would know the pleasure of giving. She said: Keep your water, it is little and decreases constantly. The river said: What good is my water if I keep it for myself and deprive others of life? She said: Your life is in your water, and if it runs out, you die.
The river replied: My death is life for others. She said: I don’t know anyone who dies so others live. The river said: Humans die as martyrs so their homeland’s children live. She replied mockingly: I will name you the martyr river after your death. The river said: This name is a great honor. The rock found no benefit from the dialogue, so she stopped speaking.
The heat of summer intensified, the thirst of the earth and trees increased, and the river increased in giving, so its waters decreased and diminished day after day until only a small amount remained in its bottom that couldn’t move. The river became unable to give, so he was overcome by great sadness, and his singing dried up on his lips. After a few days, the little river dried up. The rock looked at him and said: You have died, oh river, and you didn’t listen to my advice. The river said: The river didn’t die. The trees said: The river didn’t die, its waters flow in my veins. The roses said: The river didn’t die, its waters are mixed with my fragrance. The rock said: The martyr river remained alive in the hearts of those he gave life to. Winter came with abundant rains, so the little river filled with water and life returned to it, and the journey of joy and giving returned again..