THE CRYING STONE

In a realm of forgotten tales,

Where whispers dance with ancient gales,

There stood a stone, weathered and old,

Its heart embossed with stories untold.

Upon a desolate hill it sat,

A silent sentinel, bearing its brat,

With time's caress, it had become,

A monument to sorrows undone.

Oh, the Crying Stone, bathed in tears,

Its soul, burdened with countless years,

Each droplet shed in endless stream,

A river of sorrow, a poignant theme.

From celestial heights, raindrops fell,

Cleansing the stone, a gentle spell,

And in the haze of twilight's grace,

The stone awakened, unveiled its face.

Amidst the cascade, a symphony grew,

Whispers of melancholy, secrets anew,

As if the stone, through watery guise,

Sang a lament to the endless skies.

Its tears, a solace for hearts distressed,

An empathetic muse, souls caressed,

Each glistening drop, a profound release,

Melting anguish, bringing inner peace.

In the embrace of this mournful shrine,

Burdens were shared, hearts intertwined,

For every sorrow, every heartfelt plea,

The Crying Stone wept eternally.

Yet within its core, a flicker of light,

A shimmering hope, amidst the night,

For tears can heal, as they do fall,

An offering to the broken, one and all.

And so, dear wanderer, seek solace here,

Where the Crying Stone weeps crystal-clear,

Let your sorrows blend with timeless tears,

And find redemption in life's arduous years.

For in the tears of this silent stone,

Lies the essence of humanity's moan,

A testament to the strength we find,

When tears are shed, and hearts align.