She has a look on her face,
Like a grey dawn intended for rain,
I sit still like the limescaled statues,
Solid and omniscient in these situations.
The water will come, of course,
And the waves will pulsate their threat.
The walls, they always hold,
The vat of tears run dry,
And just some shallow puddles,
Are left behind as evidence,
Along with a silence filled with spirit and calm.