The Drained Cup A Sufi Poem

I have been sober for three months. In the first month I forgot the sweetness of wine when served with grapes and figs in an afternoon feast of song and dance, with the face of the Beloved flashing before each man's sight continually. In the second month, the fumes of wine drunk by other men no longer excited me. I listened as they praised their beloveds, becoming more hyperbolic with each glass they quaffed. I remained obdurate, unmoved by the grace that swirled over them, as they talked, no, sang of their passions. Time slowed to a crawl, its colors so bright, so crystalline, faded until the very notion of color was foreign to me. Now, the third month begins, and I am an empty flask, a drained cup, a vagrant who neither sleeps nor dreams. I walk constantly day and night, I am a victim of hunger. Oh, this hunger in our deepest selves for the one true beloved, the one who points the way and is already standing there at the end to greet us with open arms. Such is the beloved who lives and dies a thousand times for our happiness. I was confused when my beloved died and did not revive. Confused and angry. I stopped praying, and singing and dancing, and drinking the numinous wine... Oh, Daniel, look at your sorry condition. You lost faith in God's grace, then in his gift. Return to the tavern, poet, and wait. Drink wine, and prepare yourself! June 10,2016