When Dew Rained Upon The Thorns Poem by Mystic Qalandar

Upon the thorn's sharp crown it gleamed —
Was it life's elixir, or a divine dream?
The thorn exhaled a gentle sigh, and asked:
'Who are you, O light-born guest? '

The dewdrop smiled,
And spoke without words:
*'You think I am fleeting mist?
Nay — I am the sweetness of life,
The touch that turns a thorn to bloom.

When I brush the lifeless skin,
It bursts into song.
My stillness is worship,
My flowing, a prayer.
I am a mirror
In which the Maker gazes —
And then, through His warmth,
I vanish into Him.'*

The eye of the soul beheld:
On morning's breast,
At the thorn's fine tip,
Glistened a jewel of light —
A drop, reflecting the face of the sun,
A pen in the hand of God
Writing the thorn into a book of revelation.

At times, it turned to a tear,
At times, a healing nectar;
A message from the heavens,
A solace for the earth's aching heart.

It was a single drop — yet within it
Was wrapped the hush of all creation,
The gleam of eternal secrets.
When it crowned the thorn like a royal gem,
The thorn asked in wonder:
'You feared not my piercing edge? '

The dewdrop replied:
'I shall flow into you,
And you shall melt in my tenderness —
Together, we shall rise
As a song upon God's lips.'

Dew is love's silent tongue,
Wisdom that knows no script,
Vision beyond the eye.
Each drop — a traveler of centuries,
Each fall — a descent from the Divine Throne—
to the earthly floor.

The thorn is a sorrowed question,
The dew — a merciful answer.
Together they inscribe the tale
Written on rose petals since the dawn of time —
That in every dewdrop,
Sleeps an ocean of Mercy.