Aneta Adamcová-Cruz

The bridge is like the strong arm of a king,
expanding from bank to bank.
Its cobble stones sparkle with diamonds.
Statues watch umbrellas quickly pass by.
A lonely snowflake falls on the banister,
and quickly dissolves into a leaky tear.

The bridge is like the strong arm of a king,
expanding from bank to bank.
Its warm cobble stones caress all footprints.
Statues curiously overlook booths and stands.
People hum busily like the river below,
with boats, their horns, and camera flashes.

The bridge is like the strong arm of a king,
expanding from bank to bank.
Its cobble stones slumber in colorful leaves.
Statues laugh at fluttering scarves and airborne hats.
Chilly wind raises the river’s waves;
they splash with might, hurling tears onto the banister.

The bridge is like the strong arm of a king,
expanding from bank to bank.
Its cobble stones are surprised to feel feet running across.
Statues chuckle when they see them slip and fall.
The sun carves a yellow sliver into the banister,
but can’t liven it up from the silence that settled in.

The king is dead, long live the king.