The Lament of the Silent Stream

She came as dawn uncurled its pale embrace,
A shade adrift in loss’s vast expanse;
Her eyes, twin wells where sorrow’s ripples blend,
Held storylines of love once doomed to end.

This Âme, marked deep by adieux’ cruel art,
Walked slow revenge upon her breaking heart.
No tempest roared, no thunder bade her cease—
But in her chest, a storm that knew no peace.

The river whispered secrets through the shade,
A hush reflecting all that time mislaid;
Beneath the bridge, the water’s glass expanse,
Caught shadows dancing in a mournful dance.

“Why linger here, where night outlasts the day?”
The wind lamented, cold and stark and gray.
Her voice, a murmur, answered back in kind,
“I seek the fragments left within my mind.”

Once, love had bloomed beneath the sun’s bright hand,
Two hearts entwined like roots in fertile land.
But fate, that fickle weaver of our days,
Unwound their threads beneath the veiling haze.

His parting words—etched razor-sharp and clear—
Still echoed in the corridors of her fear:
“Forgive a heart that breaks to live anew,
Though it must break apart to leave for you.”

She stood upon the arch, hands clenched and pale,
Each memory a ghost within the veil.
The silent river bore her sighs downstream,
A tender requiem for love’s lost dream.

The bridge itself, a metaphor of time,
Suspended ‘twixt what’s past and what’s sublime,
Where every step along the creaking floor
Recalled the weight of all that came before.

She thought of days when laughter filled the air,
When hope was freshly born, unscarred by care.
Yet grief had sown a shadow in her breath,
A quiet march toward solitude and death.

Across that span, the world seemed cold, resigned,
A stage where human plight was well-defined.
The endless cycle of embrace and loss,
Of hearts that beat, then shiver, then emboss.

Beneath her feet, the river’s whispered age
Knew every pang of sorrow, every cage,
Of mortal souls who wandered, torn and worn,
By longing’s flame, by passion’s shroud and scorn.

The moon arose, a pale and watchful eye,
Its silver tongue licking the darkened sky.
A lonely witness to this soul’s lament,
Whose every breath was drawn from discontent.

“Must all who love be doomed to this despair?”
She whispered to the cool and quiet air.
“Is not the heart a vessel forged in pain—
A chalice cracked, thus never whole again?”

Her shadow stretched, a phantom stretched in gloom,
Cast long against the night’s encircling tomb.
And yet within the depths of her despair,
There flickered still a fragile, flickering flare.

A testament to those who walk alone,
Through halls of grief, with hearts of polished stone.
For though the past may haunt with whispered cries,
The human spirit, in its ache, still flies.

But here, upon this bridge that death might cross,
She caught the final echo of her loss.
The air grew dense, the stars withdrew their light,
And sorrow draped the world in deepest night.

A parting note, a requiem so slight,
She pitched her soul into the river’s flight.
The silent stream embraced her fading song,
A mournful melody where none belong.

Her last breath floated on the evening breeze,
A whispered tale among the autumn leaves.
The bridge stood bare, a witness cold and gray,
To love’s departure and the soul’s decay.

So linger still upon that fragile span,
Where mortal hearts confront the fate of man.
A story marked by adieux, keen and wise—
The echo of the human soul’s demise.