The Last Bridge

An old man, a bridge builder by trade,

came to a bank of a chasm, deep and wide.

He rested a while and pondered the case,

and designed the right bridge for the place.


Experience of years flashed though his mind,

Thousands of bridges unique in design.

Every one calculated in detail with care,

Proportioning strength with a dash of flare.


A little stone arch to cover a creek,

A tall urban structure shiny and sleek,

Green footpath draping ravine,

Cables webbing, tracing, the scene.


Even now the crowds are calling his name,

The whole world has offered him fame.

His response has been continually

“I'm nothing, you are the builders really.”


Even while he is so greatly adored

Those who will not be ignored

For jealousy, or interference

Are chasing him with vengeance.


He sighs as the followers approached

The last bridge, perfectly constructed,

Each member designed and encased,

The builders ready and eager to place.


Then through the loud, echoing tumult,

The voice of one loved with a fathers heart

Crying loudly, dying out with a yelp

Pursued closely, in dire need of help


At the last second the answer so clear

He gives himself, and builds a bridge there

A perfect arch, snugly creating a walk

From the end of the path, and into the rock.


More perfect in design then ever before

Years of knowledge, a hard works life store

One who passed over will never return

Others like us left to wonder and learn.

The End

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