I Drink Poem by Mystic Qalandar

I Drink

I drink—
not from any lip of flesh,
but from the hollow of emptiness
where nothingness
remembers its own name.

Not Narcissus' pool,
not the mirror
where the ego haggles
with its ghost—
this is the axis,
the well of first matter,
where water ceases to be water
and becomes God's first thought
taking the shape of thirst.

I drink
without apology, without veil.
To whom should I apologize?
My witness is my echo;
my judge, the rib returned.
In this assembly there is no other—
only the One
playing the ancient game of two,
clapping with one hand
just to hear itself.

I am thirsty,
and yet thirst is never quenched.
It is the heart's holy contraction:
love folding inward
to make room
for stars, for breath, for song.

If thirst were to cease,
time would harden;
completion would turn to diamond,
motionless—
and eternity would suffer
the terror of having nothing
left to desire.

Thirst is grace's engine,
creation's pulse—
the serpent swallowing its tail,
the hidden ache that turns the spheres.

I delight in this thirst—
not as pleasure delights in possession,
but as fire delights in burning,
as the wave delights
in shattering on the shore,
becoming foam, music, return.

This is ecstasy:
language surrendering its last certainty,
Creator and creature
stammering into each other.

To cherish thirst
is to love the blessed friction of limit—
the Infinite
gently worn by the finite.

So I drink,
and drink again.
Each sip a little death;
each breath a resurrection.

This spring never empties.
It deepens.

It is not mine—
it is what I am.
So vast
that pebbles on its floor,
the moon disturbing its surface,
the surrounding silence
and the silence that it is—
all dwell within it.

One thirst alone:
the universe bending over itself,
a single drop
drinking its own reflection.

The drop falls
into eternity's open palm—
laughing,
unbroken,
already full.

Drink.

─MyKoul