The rickety wooden bridge,
Spans the perennial mountain stream,
Come summer or monsoon,
Her cool sweet water flows on.
Starting from the virgin rain forest,
Under tall, dense, green canopies,
Where sunlight never kisses the ground,
Starts she, and ceaselessly goes on.
The bridge, the trees and the stream,
Witness in silent communion,
As dusk succeeds dawn,
And as life flows on.
As the moon and the stars.
Quietly give way to rising sun,
The village awakens – men and women,
Laborers, chickens, school children,
Hobbling old men, stray dogs,
Cows impatient to graze,
Farmers with loads of produce,
All cross the bridge, move on.
Soon the village brats are up,
Not yet started school,
Oh, what joy to pelt stones at mangoes,
To run at breakneck speed and brawl!
Now there is a commotion,
A wheezing little lady, quite, quite old,
Lying on an armchair,
Lashed to a couple of bamboo poles.
Four hefty young men,
Quickly take her across the bridge,
Into the waiting jeep,
To the hospital, she goes.
Scarce a day passes,
When they bring her back in a coffin,
The stream whispers, “Her time is done,
To her maker she goes!
Here was I when she was born,
Playing in my waters, she grew.
The damsel soon got married,
To a young man from yonder village.
Soon, they came and settled here,
Had children, grandchildren.
Then a great grandma was she,
Eldest in the village, now gone!”
The summer dries the grass,
Except around the stream,
Everyone finds solace,
In the grace that flows on.
Then the monsoon clouds come,
Lightning, thunder, rain,
The stream swells to a river,
While the bridge just holds on.
Aware in the infinite ocean of love,
Silently, they watch, moment to moment,
The ever-changing scenes of life,
As timeless time flows on!
