She cried, but for what she didn't know.  For lost hopes or discouraged dreams?  It didn't seem quite that.  Something seemed to tell her she was crying for what she'd forgotten to dream and the hopes she hadn't yet been brave enough to see.  She was crying not to pity nor to weep, she was crying to give courage something to drink and to breathe.  She was crying to hear him speak, to open a tiny pin hole in her eyes that she might perhaps begin to see.  Because she knew the tears would know for what they were falling, the little soldiers dashing to the floor.  Perhaps they'd fill her eyes, and in so filling, still her soul. Forget that, stir it.  Smash it, as they shattered on the floor.  And in each drop that spilt itself, it'd tell her what she needed to know.  Tell her, "This is what I'd die for." Tell her, "This is why I cry."  Tell her, "This is where I came from - this is why the waters in you stir." Fill her eyes and blur her vision.  Make her stop and listen, as each one fell.  "I'm just making room, making waves, making rhythm.  Let us fall.  Let us die."  And the more they fell, the more she found something like courage had risen.