In An Other world, we will gather the tears of those who cry in love, sitting at night on doorsteps, alone.
Each tear fallen caught in fairy-cups, glistening in Ceridwen’s moonlight, will be the most sought-after draught, saline drops of distilled desire falling from eyes whose attempts to love have seen the fear of loss.
They do not need them, these tears. They are what is left over, what spills out when so much love can no longer be held inside the soul.
In An Other world, there will be no such thing as too-much love, because it will be gathered, held close in tiny teacups born in even smaller hands, carried as gifts to those who do not have enough love. To children without parents, to widows whose bodies have long been untouched by the sweating palms of lusting lovers, to those who have lost, to those who have never been loved.
But there will be no unloved in An Other world, for the poets and dreamers who cry at night upon doorsteps, their tears glistening in Ceridwen’s moon, have more than enough love to give the world.