The Uncrossed Bridge

After the morning’s hustle and bustle

Chaotic departures of lunch boxes

When our home sighs sadly relieved

Like an empty polished sea shell,

I am drawn unwillingly to your room

Still very much your own

Though you have been gone long

Never to claim ownership again.

 

Rows and rows of book standing

To attention, even without their commander,

Your finally emptied ash-tray

Still a little ashy to my touch

I try to continue our dialogue

Carried on for thirty years

And to put together the puzzle

That I could not all those years

I ask a thousand questions

Offer ten thousand explanations;

Sorting out happiness and pain, given and received

The untidy jumble of angry love, accusing regrets

Trying in vain to cross that final bridge

Which you still keep drawn up.

 

-Chand R.Sirimanne

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