Burning Bridges

There's an island,

green as emerald.

That is where I live.

To this island

you can come

if you build a bridge with me.

I've built many throughout my life.

Some were shabby,

others abandoned halfway,

but plenty still stand,

strong and bright.

And there are places

where once was a bridge

but now you'll only find

a smoky scent

and burnt pikes

left behind.

Some of them

were once my favorites,

but the boards cracked,

the ropes frayed,

and tolls grew each day.

The people from the other side

never paid a visit,

never let me cross,

yet made me to maintain

our bridge alone.

At times I waited.

I stopped repairing,

wondering if anyone else

would come to fix it.

But they never did,

so I watched our bridge

slowly fall away.

Others became points of attacks,

thieves came in the middle of night

to take what little I had.

One night I woke,

and everything was gone.

All I was left with

was a single choice:

keep the bridges

or burn them down.

With heavy heart

I struck the match,

lit the fire

and watched it dance.

Sometimes people still return

and wonder why they can not cross.

"Build another one" they shout.

I pretend I can not hear,

With busy steps, I walk away.

Ash sticking to my boots,

as I tend to the bridges that remain.

Now my island is more lush than ever.

Only the people who know

how to care for it

are permitted.

The ones who do not trample the grass,

do not pick the flowers,

but water them,

call the butterflies closer,

walk gently through the fields—

with me,

along the bridges

we built together.