The Thing

It cries alone
All day, all night.
The Thing, they say,
Is quite a fright.
Yet none have ever dared to see
The Thing that lingers so slowly
The Thing that sighs and weeps and mourns
The Thing that eats dead leaves and thorns
That watches everyone in rage
From highest tree to darkest cave
A secret which it knows and keeps
Is why it sighs and mourns and weeps
A secret that will not be known;
The Thing will always
Cry alone.