Tears

Sometimes they are joy
Those tears born spontaneously, so pure,
As if they spring without a reason,
Just because…

Some other times they are sadness,
The mirror of a grieved pain,
And they burst out arid, hard
As if they mutilate the very heart,
Just because…

Sometimes it’s just one single tear, brighter and saltier than ever,
Evanescent, shy,
As a sensed spark
Of a greater world…
And sometimes it’s just a cold tear
Secretly carrying
The whole stigma of an endless sorrow…

Sometimes tears are like rivers
Running into the sea,
Into a perceived freedom they wish to hug…
Other times, they are just still waters
Quietened by silent winds obstinately refusing to blow…

So many and so various are the tears
Abiding in the poet’s soul,
Whether it is arid, desert,
Or full, fertile and awakened,
Wrapped up in an ecstasy,
Hibernating or totally inert…

In each poured tear
Illusion fades, falsehood dies,
And in an always new way, perchance undefined,
Unmistakably
There is Life!