These are not merely drops of tears mixed with the heart's blood; they are arrowheads of sorrow that had accumulated in the heart for a long time and have now emerged.

The poet looks at his bloody tears and refuses to dismiss them as ordinary weeping. To him, the pain is so sharp and ancient that it feels as though the broken arrowheads of old griefs, long buried in his wounded heart, are finally breaking free and spilling out. It is a striking metaphor for how deeply buried sorrow doesn't simply fade away—it sharpens, festering until it forces its way out.