On weeping

 

If one weeps, well that

Is what one does. There is no

Rule of right and wrong,

Perhaps a song brings

Back a girl once longed for

Or a fragrance in the air

Or a time of delight suddenly lost;

So for protection

We don’t remember

Much more than the feeling,

Stealing up against our will

In splashes of tears;

Which we seek to hide

For their presence

Is shameful and must be

Concealed at all costs –

If we’re a man,

And if not well

There is no hope for that either,

Each weeping in his own way

Softly, quietly, gravely, still