At the root of the tearfed tree,
There lies a mirror black and still
Do not touch what rises there
Do not ask the water's will

North of the chapel, past the stones,
Past fields that will not green,
There stands a tree with hollow bark
Where every grief has been

Its branches lean like listening hands,
Its roots drink deep below
Not from the spring, not from the rain,
But from the salt we owe

They call it Lachryma in whispers,
The tree that sorrow fed
It does not bloom for summer's sake
Nor give us back the dead

At its feet, a black mere sleeps,
No wind can make it stir
But every tear that strikes its skin
Becomes what longings were

One tear for love,
One tear for war,
One tear for all
You cannot hold anymore

O Lachryma, Lachryma,
What do you take from me?
A tear, a name, a buried flame,
A face I came to see

O Lachryma, Lachryma,
What do you give instead?
A flower, a fruit, a ringing root,
A dream beside the dead

Do not reach into the mere,
Do not break the blackened glass
What rises there is almost here,
But almost cannot last

A bride once came in winter white,
Her wedding dawn denied
The morning found the branches full
Of flowers out of time

A mother called through seven years,
Her voice grown thin with snow
The red fruit split with iron scent
For sons the wars let go

A saint refused a king his peace,
And wept beneath the leaves
By dawn, the gold on every branch
Showed guilt to those who grieved

A child with no one left to hold
Cried into wooden walls
And from the heartwood, low and deep,
There came a bell that calls

Almost here,
Almost gone,
Almost voice,
Almost song

Almost hand,
Almost breath,
Almost mercy,
Almost death

A queen read names against the storm,
The drowned heard crown and rain
By dawn, the leaves were bright with salt
So ships could sail with pain

A minstrel laid his broken throat
Against the listening wood
The branches played his final song
As gently as they could

A child once wept to save the moon
From drowning in the lake
And blue-white flowers opened wide
For foolish mercy's sake

A widow fed the roots with bread
And tears on death-day ground
The orchard gave her one sweet dream,
Then took it back by dawn

If you come to Eidolon Mere,
come empty-handed

Bring no cup
Bring no blade
Bring no bargain for the dead

Bring only the grief
that has learned your shape

Let one tear fall

You may see a lover
You may see a son
You may see the face you wronged
You may see yourself
as someone once hoped you would become

But listen well:

The mere is not a doorway
Not yet

It only shows what the heart still reaches for
before the tree decides
what shape your sorrow can survive

A judge's daughter saw the bark
Grow names no law could hide
And lovers poor as winter dust
Found little doors inside

But here, before the flower wakes,
Before the red fruit gleams,
Before the salt leaf guards the mast,
Before the orchard dreams

The mere lies black beneath the root,
And every tale begins
With someone kneeling in the cold
To pour the soul within

O Lachryma, Lachryma,
What do you take from me?
A tear, a name, a buried flame,
A face I came to see

O Lachryma, Lachryma,
What do you give instead?
A flower, a fruit, a ringing root,
A dream beside the dead

O Lachryma, Lachryma,
Let the black water show
The ones we lost, the ones we loved,
The ones we could not know

O Lachryma, Lachryma,
Root of salt and rain
Drink what the living cannot keep
And make it bloom again

At the root of the tearfed tree,
There lies a mirror black and still
Do not touch what rises there
Do not ask the water's will

The first tear disappears
And somewhere in the sleeping wood
The next old tale appears