Still as death, silent as the dark,
Empty as the cold, it sits there.
There is has been for centuries,
seeing all, nothing seeing it.
It longs for one thing: company;
the one thing it will never get.
Nothing dares draw near its surface
in fear their eyes will be opened.
Not the swan, not the stars nor man.
Even the majestic mountains
Go to lengths to avoid its face.
In loneliness it waits longer
for the single brave creature
who will look into it, realize
the hidden truth, touch it with a
finger's tip, and cause uncalming,
calling, wondrous ripples.
But, until then, it waits.