I Wrote My Doubts On The Mirror

What bathes in the light
Like a ladle of moonlit tears,
Caressing our scars
With lonely memories.

What runs from the sun
Like a shadow on the sand,
Whispering our fears
With a ring in hand.

What sings of a tale
Like a lark in the trees,
Holding our eyes
Until hope disappears.

But who cares for the ill,
Like a shepard in the midst,
Guiding these hopeless
To the world they resist.

What might I ask
Carries this task?