Weeping Wall

There is a Cafe I know of,
in the foyer of a tall building.
The Cafe is set before a wall of stone.
Down this wall runs
a curtain of water.
Not as a waterfall
tumbling and splashing,
to a pool beneath.
But a steady, constant, trickling skin,
across the width of the wall,
for it is wide and it is high.

A busy place, the Cafe,
people moving to and fro.
Buzz of conversation, laughter,
quiet music, against the chink of crockery.
A pleasant, warm, happy space.
So too, seems my life.
Except it is backed,
by a wall of stone,
where runs a trickling, constant,
curtain of grief.

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