The Orphan’s Bridge of Rain and Remembrance
Beneath the weeping vault of ashen skies,
Where tempests hum their dirge to buried years,
A bridge of iron, scarred by time’s indifferent hand,
Arches its spine above the river’s whispered tears.
There stands the boy—a silhouette of shadows cast
By memory’s cruel lantern—thin and pale,
His fingers tracing rivulets of rain
That snake like ghosts along the rusted rail.
The world has dressed itself in liquid gray,
Each drop a needle stitching closed the day,
Yet through the veil, a single star contends—
A silver shard that in the gloom contends,
Not light, but promise, faint as breath on glass,
A cipher from the past it strains to unmask.
He knows this bridge; its every groan and sigh
Are verses from a lullaby long lost.
Here, once, small hands had clutched a sister’s sleeve,
Two souls adrift where winter’s edge was crossed.
“Look, Eli!”—had her voice not soared like wings?—
“The star that guides the vagrant hearts,” she’d cried,
“When shadows crowd too close, we’ll meet beneath,
And here I’ll wait for you, though worlds divide.”
But worlds had split that night with no farewell.
A carriage’s lamp, a stranger’s curt command,
Her fingers torn from his as storm winds rose,
And silence, vast as seas, where she had stood.
The orphanage’s walls, like prison’s breath,
Condemned his days to whispers half-remembered:
Her laughter (had it chimed like porcelain?),
Her hair (auburn, or sunlit oak in ember?).
Twelve winters gnawed the edges from his mind,
Yet still the star returns, as she had sworn.
Each year he seeks its fractured gleam, though reason pleads
That hope’s a blade to those already torn.
The present quivers—is that her footfall’s trace
Echoing through the rain’s relentless hymn?
No—only river stones, their hollow song,
And wind that weaves through willows, gaunt and grim.
A locket cold against his breastbone stirs—
Two faces smudged by time’s relentless tide,
One his, one hers (or so the dream insists),
Though which is which the years have long denied.
“I’ll find you,” he had vowed to empty dark,
“Though stars expire and bridges turn to dust.”
Yet now, beneath the mockery of light,
His faith erodes, as all things mortal must.
The river, black and shrewd, beneath him swirls,
Its currents thick with secrets never told.
How simple, whispers water to the stone,
To let the locket plunge, to loose one’s hold
On phantoms that the living cannot keep.
His fist uncurls—the chain spills free like tears—
A glint, a plash, then depths resume their sleep.
Some truths, he learns, are fathoms too severe.
The star, as if approving, dims and fades.
Dawn’s pallid fingers pry the storm apart
To find him kneeling where her shadow stayed,
His youth dissolved, an old man’s weight his heart.
The bridge remains—cold chronicler of vows—
Its iron etched with names the rain will bleach,
While far below, the river’s endless flow
Carries a silver spark toward distant beach.
No ballads bloom from griefs this quietly borne,
No epics grace the tears that leave no scar.
The orphan walks, his footsteps drowned in rain,
One more lost soul beneath the indifferent star.
Yet sometimes, when the autumn storms descend,
A locket’s gleam in some fish’s silver side
Will tell the old tale to the wondering waves—
How love persists, though star and child have died.
Where tempests hum their dirge to buried years,
A bridge of iron, scarred by time’s indifferent hand,
Arches its spine above the river’s whispered tears.
There stands the boy—a silhouette of shadows cast
By memory’s cruel lantern—thin and pale,
His fingers tracing rivulets of rain
That snake like ghosts along the rusted rail.
The world has dressed itself in liquid gray,
Each drop a needle stitching closed the day,
Yet through the veil, a single star contends—
A silver shard that in the gloom contends,
Not light, but promise, faint as breath on glass,
A cipher from the past it strains to unmask.
He knows this bridge; its every groan and sigh
Are verses from a lullaby long lost.
Here, once, small hands had clutched a sister’s sleeve,
Two souls adrift where winter’s edge was crossed.
“Look, Eli!”—had her voice not soared like wings?—
“The star that guides the vagrant hearts,” she’d cried,
“When shadows crowd too close, we’ll meet beneath,
And here I’ll wait for you, though worlds divide.”
But worlds had split that night with no farewell.
A carriage’s lamp, a stranger’s curt command,
Her fingers torn from his as storm winds rose,
And silence, vast as seas, where she had stood.
The orphanage’s walls, like prison’s breath,
Condemned his days to whispers half-remembered:
Her laughter (had it chimed like porcelain?),
Her hair (auburn, or sunlit oak in ember?).
Twelve winters gnawed the edges from his mind,
Yet still the star returns, as she had sworn.
Each year he seeks its fractured gleam, though reason pleads
That hope’s a blade to those already torn.
The present quivers—is that her footfall’s trace
Echoing through the rain’s relentless hymn?
No—only river stones, their hollow song,
And wind that weaves through willows, gaunt and grim.
A locket cold against his breastbone stirs—
Two faces smudged by time’s relentless tide,
One his, one hers (or so the dream insists),
Though which is which the years have long denied.
“I’ll find you,” he had vowed to empty dark,
“Though stars expire and bridges turn to dust.”
Yet now, beneath the mockery of light,
His faith erodes, as all things mortal must.
The river, black and shrewd, beneath him swirls,
Its currents thick with secrets never told.
How simple, whispers water to the stone,
To let the locket plunge, to loose one’s hold
On phantoms that the living cannot keep.
His fist uncurls—the chain spills free like tears—
A glint, a plash, then depths resume their sleep.
Some truths, he learns, are fathoms too severe.
The star, as if approving, dims and fades.
Dawn’s pallid fingers pry the storm apart
To find him kneeling where her shadow stayed,
His youth dissolved, an old man’s weight his heart.
The bridge remains—cold chronicler of vows—
Its iron etched with names the rain will bleach,
While far below, the river’s endless flow
Carries a silver spark toward distant beach.
No ballads bloom from griefs this quietly borne,
No epics grace the tears that leave no scar.
The orphan walks, his footsteps drowned in rain,
One more lost soul beneath the indifferent star.
Yet sometimes, when the autumn storms descend,
A locket’s gleam in some fish’s silver side
Will tell the old tale to the wondering waves—
How love persists, though star and child have died.
“`
