We've been repairing the bridge for years,
all death and no distinction, all martyrs, all children.
We've been repairing these bonds for years.
Only now it feels like it matters.
Only now it feels like it's final.
Every time I look at our progress, it feels forced,
contemporary grief passing for temporary acceptance.
The missing boards in the memories I hide
all have names and faces and, worse yet, parents.
We've been repairing our souls for years,
all loss, all work, no play, all children.
We've fallen, like buildings, on a summer afternoon.
In our wake, we leave gravesites the size of a heartache.
When we wake, we lose traces in the mourning.
Every scream, every gesture of contaminated greeting,
all children, all waving, all lost, all gone, all forever.
A final goodbye, all pain and fear washed out in mere minutes.
I can't always remember their names, but I always remember their faces.
The moment the river claimed their innocence, their lives, and ours as well.
All I can really think about is how I wish I could've waved back.
We've been repairing our scars for years,
but we are never as strong as bridges...