CRY IF YOU WANT TO
In the dark of night
when others sleep,
I sit in the woods
and count my sheep.
My heart hangs heavy
as I think of you.
I refuse to cry
if I dream of you.
They have told me
to allow my tears to fall.
I shut my eyes
and fall asleep in a ball.
The wind whistles through the trees.
I open my eyes to a sight.
You sit on the grass facing me,
your eyes shining in the dim light.
“Cry if you want to,”
you whisper.
“But I don’t want to,”
I whisper.
The dawn lights the dark sky.
I yawn and stretch my limbs.
My eyes are bright and dry
since I’ve refused to cry.
SUSANNE LEIST 