They brought them down beneath the stone. Still breathing. Still with flesh and bone. The lime ran white across the wall. What would not fit, they broke it small. By dawn, no living names remained. No voice came back. No mouth complained. Nothing there looked human then. Only weight was left of them. Built of blood and bones. Built to look like stone. Count the arches. Count the spans. Never count what holds them up. Hair caught where two blocks met the seam. A wrist lay pale beneath the beam. They poured the lime and filled the gaps. Then set more stone across the cracks. They called it fill. They called it base. No word remained for hand or face. The surface dried without a stain. What lay below remained the same. Built of blood and bones. Built to look like stone. Nothing left that looked alive. Nothing gone from underneath. Boot heels came down in morning rain. Cart wheels crossed and crossed again. One winter split the outer wall. A pale edge showed beneath it all. They filled the crack and sealed it tight. By dawn, no mark remained in sight. The bridge held fast. The road stayed wide. What lay below stayed sealed inside. Years passed. Stone darkened. Names disappeared. Children crossed already knowing the tune. We taught them the song so we would not have to teach them the names. Built of blood and built of bones, blood and bones, blood and bones. Built of blood and built of bones. Sing it clean now. Count the arches. Count the spans. Walk across. It still holds. Built of blood and built of bones, blood and bones, blood and bones. Built of blood and built of bones. Sing it clean now. Count the arches. Count the spans. Walk across. It still holds.
