The Bridge on the River Kwai

The Bridge on the River Kwai

In the twilight of a jungle grey,
where pines sigh beneath the moon’s pale eye,
the river Kwai calls with a silver pull,
a steady heart that knows no war.

The bridge—steel and sweat stitched together—
spares no whisper of the night’s lament.
It juts across the water’s blue throat,
a fragile line from rock to distant shore.

Men from far‑away horizons,
their boots dusted with rice‑stalk and sand,
marinated in cold stew, and tea,
work the iron‑handed beams into place.

The engineer’s calloused fingers, sticky as cocoa,
climb ladders that creak with the weight of history.
They hoist the planks with a poet’s rhythm,
their hearts beat in unyielding tempo.

The jungle watches, patient as an elder’s silver hair,
its breeze a gentle mockery of battle.
Birdsong mingles with the hiss of torpedoes,
a war‑laced lullaby that drifts down the valley.

In the bridge’s shadow, a lorry idles—
the rumour of engines rising from the east.
Railway lines whisper with nails,
their tracks a fractured vow of continuity.

When night falls, the bridge is spray‑lit by distant gunfire,
the river a dark body reflecting the dramatic stars.
Soldiers, some faintly alive, some fainted,
make their lives entwined in iron‑bound resolve.

Beneath the rails, a muted oath:
every rivet was a memory saved,
every riveted seam a pledge to endure,
and every heartbeat to survive the truer fight.

Now the river curves, the bridge remains,
quiet as a story told by a hand‑inked map.
A testament to humanity,
to the way the land keeps our fierce ambitions,
and to the truth that, even in the roaring war,
the river Kwai persists… calmly, patient, infinitely moving.