Whose bowl is that? I think I know,
Its owner’s heart weighed down with woe.
A tale of sorrow, depths untold,
In silent pain, his story’s told.
He clutches tight his heavy bowl,
As tears like rivers flood his soul.
No other sounds but nature’s grace,
Yet sadness fills this quiet space.
The bowl, a vessel, old and worn,
Reflects the pain where he’s been torn.
With promises unmet, he’ll keep,
His vigil through the endless weep.
He rises from his somber bed,
With thoughts of sorrow in his head,
He longs for peace, to be unfed,
With dread that lingers, never shed.
But let us hope for brighter days,
When the sun will break through cloudy haze.
With time and love, his heart may mend,
And find a joy that knows no end.
