The lake does weep
as if he were a broken man
tears wet and cold
brought about by warmth,
hidden under shattered layers of frigid skin

but never his tears bring comfort
nor sorrows untold

Never will his tears roll down cheeks,
soft and running with veins filled blue

never will he sob for wet wounds rubbed raw,
pricked with pain

or for a heart grown weak,
as if fingers have plucked roughly at its strings

And a bow legged fawn then will stumble,
and his tears will give way,
crippled under a child’s flesh

and lungs will fill
and no longer will the poor fawn dream

for dark tears have trickled deep into memories,
stealing light from her eyes,
dissolving marrow between her bones

Still will the fawn grow,
encased in the likeness of mother’s womb

And once more will his tears run free
his sheer skin caressed by long and gentle arms,

But these arms will not wipe the tears from his face
nor bring rest to a mind heavy

Not for the fawn does the lake weep,
when mother’s arms do break his frozen banks at dawn.