She sings a song that I think you’d recognize. It’s not a song that you will hear on the radio. It’s not a song that translates easily into the format of an MP3. This song, as you may have guessed by the tone set, is a song of sadness. But these are other men’s words. To give justice to the poetic weepings of her voice as it carries what once were shoulders across foreign yards, there is nothing I can do. For her. For you. She sits in a concrete sailboat that a toy child holds above the skin of a pond, fresh from the rain. Just a breath away from a breaking. Such soft water. She sings. I swear to fuck she made me cry. Nobody, placed in my posit, would want to stay within an ear of such tender torture.

But what can I say? I have a heart that was built sweetly for sorrow, that cries for thunder time and time again, the blood of my love flowing freely to taste the many seas and skies. Each tear a sailboat, and the world spins around. I will listen, and she will cry.

And how could I go on knowing such a depth that exists in the heart of a stranger, born from a voice cast away by the very harp which gave it to air?

These are tears for February, tears for the melting of snow. Tears for the woman who sings by the pond.

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