Dear folklore

Cindion Huang ‘25

Show me the lake where all the poets went to die:
The clear water, pebbles under sage green;
Is that where they look towards the sky?

Or is it there where they silently cry
A river of white, hoping that someday,
Someone arrives at the lake where they went to die?

Show me the lake where many poets tried
to craft timeless pieces of art — unseen,
Unknown unless the poets turn and say goodbye;

When the poets look up towards the sky
For one last time, with no hate or dismay, 
Do they hold a glare or tear in their eye? 

Show me the lake where all the poets died, 
Where the warm summer breeze, the air so clean
That they wished to sink & forever hide. 

Did the lake vanish, dried up by your side
with all the life and hopes deflated astray?
After every drunken cloud and every sunken tide --
Show me the lake where all the poets died.