The Gospel of Water

I am the drop you forgot on your lips,

The river you mocked in plastic slips,

The ocean that wept when you turned to war,

The dew on the blade, unseen, ignored.

I am water—formless, faithful, divine,

A servant to your thirst, your harvest, your spine.

I trickled through Eden, I danced on the Ark,

Yet today I’m a currency, bottled and dark.

You prayed for rain, then cursed the flood,

You bathe in me, then soil my blood.

I’ve carved your canyons, softened your stones,

Yet you kill me with filters, with pipes, with loans.

In temples and tombs, you poured me as rite,

A symbol of life, of truth, of light.

But now I am sewage, a profit to scan,

Reduced to a barcode by the hand of man.

Oh child of dust, remember this tale,

Each heartbeat in you rides my fragile sail.

Each eye you open, each dream you chase,

Is drenched in the rhythm of my embrace.

You preach of heaven while I fall from skies,

You drown your sins, then bottle your lies.

Your fields I fed, your fires I quelled,

Yet my purity you auctioned, my kindness you shelled.

I bore the boat that carried your kin,

I bore the tears of your every sin.

You whispered in lovers’ ears by my streams,

You built your cities upon my dreams.

Do you not see the satire unfold?

The liquid life now sold in gold.

You sell what was free, gift-wrapped in pride,

While your neighbors die on the desert’s side.

Hydrate your body, but what of your soul?

You poison my rivers, then preach self-control.

You irrigate greed with my sacred flow,

Then ask why your gardens no longer grow.

In me is the lesson you refuse to learn,

That softest things have the strongest turn.

I cut through rock with patience and grace,

Yet vanish at will without a trace.

I cleanse the body and nourish the seed,

But can drown a kingdom when ignored in greed.

I am the paradox wrapped in prayer,

Both silent stream and storm’s despair.

Who taught you that power comes loud and fast?

I taught humility—vast and vast.

In every drop is a sermon, a guide,

A monk’s quiet chant, a mother’s pride.

I hosted the fish, the frog, the whale,

The lotus, the reed, the nightingale.

I shaped the shell, the coral, the coast,

Yet I am least thanked when you raise a toast.

You bathe your gods and bury your kin,

With water that weeps for the soul within.

I have witnessed all empires rise and rust,

Their thrones once bathed in my sacred trust.

Why praise the sword and not the stream?

Why fear the fire, yet scorn the dream

That flows through you, that makes you whole,

That circles your lungs, your blood, your soul?

The irony cuts like a blade of glass:

You poison me daily and yet raise a glass.

You drink me for health, then drain me for oil,

Your prayers sound sweet, but your hands are spoil.

O man of logic, blind and proud,

I dwell in the mist, the foam, the cloud.

I rose with the sun, I fell with the moon,

Yet now I am rationed by corporate tune.

Water, you chant, is life, is love—

But you damn my rivers, steal rains from above.

You build great dams that stifle my voice,

Then ask why the crops no longer rejoice.

You made me a maid, a mule, a slave,

But never a master, a world to save.

You harness my flow for power and speed,

But ignore my wisdom, my ancient creed.

I wash the wounds of saints and swine,

And never ask for gold or sign.

I enter every home, unseen, unsought,

Yet exit in chains of drought and thought.

What foolish species pollutes its vein,

And then calls its suffering “natural pain”?

You suffocate oceans with plastic despair,

And wonder why fish no longer care.

You take from me more than you give,

Yet still, I flow—still, I forgive.

For kindness is coded in my form,

In every tide, in every storm.

I hold the weight of mountain snow,

The whisper of roots that grow below.

I cool the fever, I quench the fire,

I shape the caves, inspire the lyre.

Poets have sung me, kings have knelt,

But never once have you truly felt

The softness of a drop on brow

As more than comfort—it is vow.

I vow to serve, though service wounds,

To sing through pipes, through bones, through dunes.

But shall I fade, as deserts spread?

Shall I dry the tongues of those who fled?

Or shall I roar, reclaim the land,

Wash out the greed with silken hand?

Your choice, O Man, is close at heel—

I come as flood or as the seal.

I mirror your face when clear and kind,

But reflect your sins when left confined.

Your tears are mine—your every ache

Is measured in the tides I make.

Why teach your children of stars above,

When I’m the starlight in the love

That wakes them, bathes them, keeps them clean,

While you debate what's drought and dream?

You seek the gods in distant skies,

But I hold divinity in disguise.

I whisper truths in your very cup—

But you drain me dry and never look up.

I am not endless, though I seem,

I am the river inside your dream.

But even dreams can dry and die,

If left unloved beneath your eye.

So treat me not as tool or toy,

I am your sorrow and your joy.

Respect my gift, restore my grace,

Or perish slow, erased by waste.

For I, the water, do not beg—

But I shall bend, and break your leg,

And twist your fields into cracked despair,

Until you cry: “Oh Water, where?”

I am the well you never dug,

The icy truth you never hugged.

But mark my word and clean your glass—

For time flows fast, and I may pass.

Treat me well, I’ll raise your worth,

Make heaven bloom again on Earth.

But treat me foul, and I shall show

How even love can drown in woe.

The soul that gives is not the fool,

But the master of an ancient school.

And I, the water, give and give—

To teach the world what it means to live.

So sing my name in every act,

Let gratitude become your pact.

Protect the seas, the streams, the rain,

Or lose the love you can’t regain.

For water is life, is hope, is grace—

The softest touch in time and space.

I make you human, I make you whole,

I am your mirror—and your soul

(Thanks for reading!)