Hallelujah, The well is not dry.
Hallelujah, The well is not dry.

I can still hear the sound of water trickling through its subterranean course, a flow gentle and soothing and it calls out to me, in a whisper I can almost feel.

Daily, I drop a small stone, clean and smooth, carefully selected to ensure that the water stays sweet. After my count, always one second too long, I hear it take its refreshing dive and can almost taste its effervescent immersion.

Occasionally, I feel the cool zephyr of the cavern air bearing the spring’s humidity like the breath of an unrequited lover’s apologetic kiss.

Day by day, I reach as hard as I can, almost unhinging my shoulder to dip my cup. It is almost there. So close that the bottom of my cup is coated with the opalescence of mist, as it is cooled from its proximity to the stream.

And every night, I pray that the well finally becomes dust, so that this desiccating, parching hope will take its leave, and at last I can sleep, wrapped in my own darkness,  free from its pitying light.