A crack broke the serene silence
On the day the bridge fell.
Ton upon ton of masonry tumbling:
So much for strength in arches and stone.
Now I stand with toes grappling into the clay,
The body fisher, I, pulling death from the river;
And every cold, white face is my own.
Where, O shepherd's dog,
Where is the house of refuge?
Where are the hands that heal
And soothe the pain away?
Where is the master calling, calling,
Who walks in light of day?
He washes the tears that are falling, falling,
And shines the light of day.
So I'll pull me from the river
And rest on this red clay
And waiting for the shepherd's dog,
And waiting for the shepherd,
Upon this bank I'll stay.