On the Well of Grief

by David Whyte

Those who will not slip
Will not slip
Beneath the still surface
On the well of grief
Turning down
Turning down
To its' black water
To the place we cannot breathe
Will never know
Never know
The source from which we drink
The secret water
Cold and clear
Nor find
Nor find
In the darkness glimmering
The small round coins
Thrown by those who wished
For something else