Of Good Tidings and Silent Prayers

It is lonely
standing by the water,
by the little javelins
waiting for monsters to come out
to wash their hands and
quench their thirst
from the white fountain that beckons
with orange and blue reflections
on green coats and black footwear.

It is lonely
having to be happy in secret,
pretending to be blind and deaf
and mute and innocent
to the movement of black pearls
unset on the animal's face
as the guardian is distracted
by stories of sober singing
and being put to task.

Were there supposed to be
good tidings while the cup filled?
Or are silent prayers enough
to turn nightmare into dream?