It is what it claims to be.
I lay a bowl upon my bed
and on that, not a pillow, I rest my head.
The porcelain is cold, but I am colder inside,
all my warmth poured into the tears I have cried.
Now, what does one do with a vessel of tears?
Do I save it, guard it, protect it for years?
But I don't.
Still in the bowl the tears are transported
then released from the dish: they cannot be hoarded.
They fall to the ground, sink, disappear,
Thirstily drank by the tree that grows near.
And carved in the bark is a heart with some letters,
I take out a knife and erase them forever.