A mouth will drink at any muddied puddle, to quench its thirst.
a throat will drink poison, to slake its craving
the salted water of the sea never tasted so good in the heat of a desert.
And in the shining distance, a mirage shimmers,
you crawl, you drag yourself forward, hoping for peace from the torment of wanting water.
And when you have given up,
a minstrels shadow falls on your wretched body
a hand reaches out and is taken
he plays his instrument,
not as some banging rhythm guitar
not with inexpert hands
not shoving you down into the sweet well water that awaits.
you aren’t thirsty, you are not wanted, you disgust me,
would you were a camel,
or a fine boned mare,
or a virginal maiden
this minstrel though he caresses his lute with fine fingers,
as though the curve of its body were an exstention of his own
the strings tremble and sing under his hands
it is the spring from which the waters flow, out of his body, into his lute
a waterfall of music
you drench yourself in the fine cool waters,
the heat of the sun tempered by the shadows of the wind swept palms
it is as though there is a psalm being echoed in the fronds
or a poem by rumi being uttered by the shifting sands.
and from your mouth the melody pours
and you have become a song.