Douro

The river took him, chilly, cruel,
Its golden depths still dark and dual.
It bore his pain, it stole his cry,
Then left us longing: Oh, but why?

For years, I raised a dam of stone,
To cage the grief I’d called my own.
But now it cracks; the waters rise,
A flood of sorrow drowns my cries.

I see him there, adrift, untied,
His eyes once green, now glassy, wide.
I reach for him, but words stand still,
The river murmurs: Bend your will.

Its currents twist with all I’ve lost,
A slender hope at bitter cost.
They carry questions, sharp, profound,
And memories too deep to drown.

And as it flows, it carries this:
The guilt I wear, the pain I kiss.
Its tides don’t heal; they only show
The depths of loss I’ll always know.

Now, as I walk beside the stream,
Its depths a tether, not a dream.
The river seized what once was mine,
I bear its weight—a thread, a line.

The river flows, as rivers do,
Through every heart it surges through.
It bore his soul and set him free,
Yet still, he courses deep in me.