Ye little droplets through caverns fall,
streaking time immortal on faces mourning,
With crystal fragments of pain enshrined
Within those hearts of recent torning.
What soul doth gather these beads to pool,
From voices raised to fists so cruel,
But bet ye yet to age renewed
In thunderous choirs of lovers wooed.
Cast off thy tears and rivers flowing,
Down lavan cheeks and lips performing
pirouettes of wails unceasing,
Stifled not by wants demeaning.
Cease that chant of love defeated.
Embrace they pain of wound immediate.
For love enduring seeks no wrong,
When cries of woe must turn to song.
Oh trembling showers of waters dressed.
Know he not that he be blessed?
For, in grieving memories of ages past,
Come answers to the question never asked:
Why must I die?
© Gail G. Finnegan