The Bridge of Rain and Regret

The years have carved their tales upon his cheek,
Yet memory’s blade cuts deeper, sharp and bleak;
For here, where river whispers court the stone,
A heart once stirred to rhythms now unknown.
He breathes the damp, and lo! The past unfolds—
A youth’s bold stride, a tale the bridge still holds.

***

In days when cannon’s breath stained dawn’s first light,
When fields were graves, and love a fleeting sprite,
Two souls, by fate’s caprice, converged here once—
A soldier’s son, a maid from foreign lands.
Her voice, a melody from some gentler sphere,
Had thawed the ice of doubt, dissolved his fear.
They met in stolen hours, brief and sweet,
Where willows wept and ripples kissed their feet.

“O Clara,” murmured he, “though war divides,
No iron law shall shackle where heart resides.
When peace returns, like swallows to the eaves,
We’ll build a hearth where no false banner grieves.”
But she, with eyes downcast, a rose in bud,
Replied, “The storm draws near. Let’s not tempt blood.
Your land, my sire—both claim what they decree.
What’s left for hearts that dare to disagree?”

***

Yet still they lingered, hands in secret twined,
While distant drums rehearsed for humankind.
The bridge became their parchment, etched with vows,
Each meeting a psalm to Time’s relentless ploughs.
But ah! The fates, those weavers blind and cold,
Unspun their threads with hands too swift, too bold.
One eve, as stars donned veils of sulfurous smoke,
A rider came—the clarion’s curse awoke.

“To arms!” he cried. “The foe breaks through the line!
Each son must march ere nightfall’s dark design.”
The youth, pale-lipped, turned to his trembling dove:
“I’ll carve our path through chaos, prove our love.
Wait here, where first our wayward spirits met.
When moon has thrice waxed full, I’ll claim you yet.”
She clasped his hand, her tears like April’s dew,
“Though hells arise, my heart stays bound to you.”

***

Three moons waxed, waned; the bridge stood desolate,
Its stones unkissed by footsteps of his fate.
Then, on a morn when frost gnawed leaf and limb,
A crone approached, her gaze both fierce and dim.
“Seek not your dove,” she rasped, “for wings are clipped.
Her sire, enraged, deemed honor more equipped
To guard his name than let frail love abide.
She sleeps beneath the yew where tears reside.”

The youth, unmoored, plunged into battle’s maw,
His valor stained with madness none could thaw.
He fought not for crown, nor flag’s hollow grace,
But sought an end to meet her phantom face.
Yet death, capricious jester, spared his breast,
Leaving him wounds no surgeon could arrest.

***

Now, decades hence, the specter haunts this span,
His grief outliving both the war and man.
The rain, relentless, scribbles on the stream
Epitaphs for a perished lover’s dream.
He fingers now a locket, cold and worn,
Where tresses, once like sunlight, lie forlorn.
“O Clara,” whispers he to vacant air,
“Why linger I, when you transcended care?
The world makes widows of the truest vows—
Its bridges burn, but memory still endows.”

A sudden gust—the locket’s clasp, decayed,
Surrenders to the river’s cold cascade.
He lunges, grasps at shadows in the flow,
Then halts… and smiles as waters chant below.
“At last,” he breathes, “the tide consents to guide
Where she awaits, beyond the cruel divide.”

His frame, so long besieged by sorrow’s weight,
Now bends, now bows to meet his chosen fate.
The bridge, a silent witness to the years,
Receives his fall without a sob, sans tears.
The rain, still falling, hymns what none may keep—
A love that dared to dream, then leapt too deep.

***

And so the stream, in liquid whispers, weaves
Two names long scarred by life’s unyielding sheaves.
While somewhere, past the veil where shadows part,
Two souls entwine, no longer kept apart.
But here, where mortals tread with fleeting breath,
The bridge remains—a monument to death.
Its stones, like time, stay cold, immutable,
Their only dirge the rain’s eternal lull.