Charles Bridge by Anthony Brunelli

Something about a bridge brings to mind

a crossing, an opening, a way to go in either direction.

See the bridge far off in the distance, built of ancient Bohemian

stone and egg yolk mortar, its arches and statues of saints,

spans the river Vltava in Prague, a link, east to west, west to east.

Can you imagine what crossed that bridge in its 800 years?

A constant ebb and flow much like the river below:

of boots, horses’ hoofs, wagon wheels and more.

Today, pedestrians, artists and musicians fill the bridge

with music, festive colors, laughter. People leave love locks

and touch the statue of St. John Nepomuk for good luck.

After all the years of wars and floods and history, the bridge is

still there, a perpetual connector, for what we do best.

Not towers or castles, cathedrals or icebreakers

but our greatest achievement is building bridges.

Listen, can you hear the woman strumming her guitar singing

like a bridge over troubled waters
I will lay me down.