Universal suffering

Your lips were a scar of silence.
One day you said suddenly:
The woman in the death market, the one who read my palm,
Told me:
I see a waterless lake.
Three ducks swimming.
Two are dead
And the third one isn't alive.
Then she whispered: I'm from Armenia. We're the poets of pain.

Background: conversations between my mother and a survivor who has lost her child and husband. Based on an Armenian fairy-tale.