Rivers of Fate

Flowing eternally, incessantly shapechanging
They run since the creation of the World
From the crystal-clear source of vitality,
Giving births, giving might.

Small brook becomes a roaring torrent
But colors are gradually fading away
It burns in the devouring fire of Phlegethon

Rivers, that are slowly passing by
Never are being the same,
But always to the same end,
The predetermined final

What expects waters falling into the storming seas?
The destination is obscure, but firm.