You cry
for the lost lands of ice
and cry
for the wounded
and the searching.

You cry for yourself,
selfishly,
some will say.

You cry for the fact
that you cry for you,
and cry
for that fact too.

You cry
that the brave
don't cry, though
some would say
they do.

And when you've
stopped
crying and
the rushes have crept
high along the brook,
you cry
that you are older.