Vale of tears, where the willows bend low,
Moonlight drips like silver on the stones below.
Your name hums soft through the reeds and the pines,
A ghost of a lullaby tangled in vines.
I wade the dark water, boots full of cold years,
Each step a small echo of uncried tears.
Carry me, river, where the lost can lie down—
Let the night fold me gently, and drown what I found.