Every day we were longing and we didn't know what for. And it was monotonous. Monotonous became the rising and setting sun and the sun shining in the water and the white clouds that slid by. And the dark skies also became monotonous, and the leaves turning brown and yellow and the leafless tree-tops and the poor, soggy meadows in the winter, all those things I have seen so much and thought of so much in my absence and that I would see so much, if I wouldn't die. Who can spend his life watching all these things, that repeat themselves, who can keep on longing for nothing. Hoping for a God that isn't there?

A pretty lame translation of some Little Titans by Nescio, the poet after whom this bridge was named. Feel free to do it better. Nescio should be known as world literature. Its the best we've got.