Post by oskar345 on Mar 4, 2016 21:06:28 GMT 1
A Bridge in Portugal
There had been much rain in the upland and the river ran strong, so forceful
that a pillar, on the old bridge, broke off and half of it fell.
Misty night when a bus crossed the bridge, down into churning inferno,
for its passengers a few seconds of terror before death came as a blessing.
Thirty people had been aboard going home; it took hours to families of
the disappeared knew of this immense tragedy.
None was ever seen again, but one; a woman found on the strand in France,
skeletal hands pressed to her face, open mouth and the echo of a scream
as eye sockets accusatorially looked up to a silent the sky.
A new bridge has been built, the old one is still there and boys jump
off it, for them what happened a winter eight years ago is history.
It must be that way, life must go on, and the river must run towards
the ocean and eternity.
There had been much rain in the upland and the river ran strong, so forceful
that a pillar, on the old bridge, broke off and half of it fell.
Misty night when a bus crossed the bridge, down into churning inferno,
for its passengers a few seconds of terror before death came as a blessing.
Thirty people had been aboard going home; it took hours to families of
the disappeared knew of this immense tragedy.
None was ever seen again, but one; a woman found on the strand in France,
skeletal hands pressed to her face, open mouth and the echo of a scream
as eye sockets accusatorially looked up to a silent the sky.
A new bridge has been built, the old one is still there and boys jump
off it, for them what happened a winter eight years ago is history.
It must be that way, life must go on, and the river must run towards
the ocean and eternity.