Under the rain,
rimming over a monsoon-swelled river,
the brooding bridge stands,
like a solitary heartbeat stopped,
saluting the aggressive river,
in her stride,
frothing, teasing his curled-up cracks,
built to span her springing tide.
The bridge is a waiting, a muffled sob.
The river, a noise, forging forward.
The bridge stands, poised, wordless,
its roots steadfast, rolling in the
of the river.
One and yet torn apart.
By Chaitali Sengupta