He sat in stillness,
A holy book open in his hands —
Written in a language
That was not his own.
He read aloud,
Line by line,
His voice calm,
But his soul untouched.

I entered quietly,
Watched for a moment.
Then, without a word,
I reached for the jug —
Empty.
Lifted the glass —
Also empty.
I poured.
Then raised it to my lips
And drank slowly,
Eyes half-closed,
As if it were the best water in the world.

I set the glass down,
Satisfied.
A soft smile on my face.
He looked at me, confused.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“There was no water in that jug,
No drop in that glass.
Yet you drink like a thirsty man
Who’s found heaven!”
I turned to him, gently,
Still smiling.

“Sir,” I said,
“I learned from you.
You read words you do not understand,
And find peace in the sound.
I drank from what was empty,
And found joy in the act. If I am a fool,
Then what shall I call you?"