The water of most worth is not what one thinks.
Of it one cannot drink.
It is not the rain of the sky,
But the rain of the eyes.

A single drop, a sincere tear:
Worth more than any ocean can contain.
But sincere it must be,
Or mere vanity it remains.

When the eye bleeds its clear blood
Not for loss of body or things,
Nor for defeat in games or races,
But for loss of beloveds…
For loss of the King of kings,

For nightmares rising from maimed dreams,
For silhouettes where friends once sat,
And for regret,
The regret of love neglected.

Yet, when too the eye sweats
From the exhaustion of grasping hope,
The exertion in defending faith
And the wounds from shielding love,

This water of the eyes
Swells up as a great prize,
With the greatest difficulty,
For it is drawn from the soul,
Not from the body.

Tears are the soul’s sighs.
Those who shed them
Allow their spirit to emerge,
Though in disguise.

Sincere tears are never bitter;
They are always only sweet,
Yet are salty merely for us who cannot consider
The reasons for which lovers weep.

By Evan Pham – April 6, 2025

[Welcoming Passiontide]