She'd never say

How many tears her precious heart cried;
You wouldn't know;
...she wouldn't  say.
On a rhinestone patio where love should blossom, where flowers should bloom, where birds should sing. There instead lies a love, wounded, struck down, dying. There lies a heart, broken and torn. 
Where the summer sun should shine, now gather the foreboding clouds of autumn, stealing what joy remains. Now come the little sprinkles, makes you wonder how often they've fallen that way.
Ask how many times before?
You'd couldn't know;
...she couldn't say.
One thing is sure, these dreary sprinkles do not come from clouds above, but rather from eyes that shed them sore as they mourn her broken love. Eyes that see only this misery, ears that hear only her broken heart cries, a heart in jaded contemplation, of love as just a lie.  
Jaded still is her trepidation that happiness is not meant to be, her misconstrued consternation that her lonely heart feels free. So the heart is dulled, and the walls erected, round about a shelter from further misery. 
Does she mourn former love? Does she wish it back? How I wish I knew for sure. Even now, seek the answer, but as before:
You'll never know;
...she'll never say.