Climbing over the stones
I push aside the hair.
Before me lies a grove,
within its center rests a cauldron.
I approach the cauldron with apprehension
for the cauldron weeps.
Tears spill from its lip
casting a crystal hue of dew
upon the grass at its feet.
I look into the cauldron
and see dark water,
unmoving, undisturbed.
The moon's face shines in the water
her light reflecting up
into my face.
I hear a distant call
to know the Truth,
a call which urges me to my knees
before the cauldron.
The tears spill forth
from the weeping cauldron.
My hands trembles
as I reach forward.
The tears spill onto my fingers.
I touch the tears to my lips,
and draw in the salty water.
I can hear my ancestors weeping,
I can hear them calling my name,
they have called my name for decades,
yet I have not listened.
They call to me,
to rekindled the flame,
to stir the cauldron.
I stand and look once more into the cauldron.
Joy and Sorrow, Fear and Courage
race through my brain,
my breath,
my body,
and I cry.
My tears fall into the cauldron,
my lips utter their sacred names,
My tears return to them,
a gift for the Truth I have found.
And the cauldron stops weeping.
