It is only That tears can drown a dream Straight into the firelight Beholding its own bright gleam. Drops, so far from the whiteness Of springtime innocence. As an infant, I wept, Though not for this. I was weeping for pains I did not understand. Do I still? I am tears. I am in the empty well Of winterly fears. White snow Is at the absolute low Of where the bucket drowns itself. Plundering blackness Up from a bottom Where solidified teardrops remain. I have stained hands, As I live upon these sorrowed lands. Sand covers, As sand shrouds My face, The bottom of that well. I place her eyes Outside the circle, in the surrounding sides of me. I feel her sighs Coming as fog, As the gusts, As the brush of something more Than me.