The Twelfth Hour
A Parable on Waiting
What follows is the tale of a town that once was; a town that is no more, but which holds still in its silver grounds a mercy that cannot die. This town had no name, and no future, but never was it devoid of people — no — it had, indeed, plenty of souls adorning its orbit.
When the time came, as it always must, this town met its end ablaze. That is not to say it was abrupt, however. Its scarlet-coated skies slowly dissipated into shades of charcoal, choking its residents until those who didn’t burn to the end suffocated their way there.
The real tragedy was that it was the purest of the towns souls who suffered the most, swept away by winds so cruel that it had to be calculated, for no accident could take credit for such evil. Men, women, children, and the Earth itself all wept and wailed until silence took them. This went on for a very, very long time, until nobody knew what time was any longer.
The flames grew hotter and larger each day, mountains of ash swallowing people in their shadows. Picture it: fire rising on every horizon, red and grey flames consuming the air. The land wrapped in burning, smoke strangling the sight of all who do not wash it from their eyes. You can just nearly still smell it.
This town had always been on fire, but the blaze grew brighter each day, for centuries on centuries, until the final moments of this town’s existence came at a time where its children knew light only through the fury of an ever erupting volcano, never the gentle glow of a candle. But that is not to say this town had no beauty — oh, on the contrary!
This town was blessed, you see. At its heart lay a stream that flows iridescent and eternal — water so crisp and sweet and true that no tongue could exhaust its praise, nor heart drink to its end. It runs without beginning, without end, glistening beneath an ever stretched sky, kissing the earth with such tenderness that it seems less river than mercy breathed into the world. Its waters remain luminous, a blue beyond description, even the greatest of poets unable and unworthy. Not the blue of any sea, but of something crystalline, untainted. Its taste is the sweetness of truth itself, cool as mercy, rich as justice, desirable as love. It was here before there was earth to be kissed, and it is still here, amidst the ruins, amongst the ash. Earth herself finds solace in its glory, knowing it was here before the mountains stood, and shall remain when the mountains are dust.
The stream is not hidden. It does not wind through a maze nor vanish into a mirage. It flows openly, calmly, with a beauty so evident that the eye weeps simply to behold it. Its current is steady, unchanging, a constant in a town that knows only change. Listen closely and you’ll hear the song of the birds who praise its tranquil hue, who drink from it too. They do not doubt the stream, nor do they ask for signs of its reality. They dance above its surface, offering symphonies of praise, wings lit by heaven. Even the soil beside it bears a different hue, fertile with an emerald hue that refuses to fade. It is, in its purity, nothing less than the proof of God.
It is all so beautiful that in the blur of your vision, clouded by tears that recognize its sacred essence, you almost miss the others all around you. But their voices come too, then, and their incessant cries you can not ignore.
The grounds surrounding the stream are crowded with multitudes — men and women with cracked lips and faces bent in anguish. Their voices rise in lamentation that pierces the heart:
"Where is the water?" they cry. "If only there were water!"
You look at them, perplexed. They too stand beside you, before the stream. Here it is! You say. See? Please don’t cry, you need not thirst, you console. But they keep on crying, and there are more of them than you. They weep and they weep, and you’re saddened at the sight, your heart splits at their sorrow — but you cannot understand what they mean.
You do not doubt the stream. It is before you, clear as the very sun. Its song fills your ears, its coolness runs through your veins. But each time you turn back to the masses, you find their grief louder than your voice. You shout until your throat is torn, point until your arms are heavy: The water is here! You stand within it!
Still, they beg for what is already flowing at their feet.
In the distance, the town remains ablaze, copper hues stripping people of sight and breath without mercy. The ground trembles beneath the weight of collapse, and all that was once firm seems on the verge of dust. There is no relief, it seems. Except that is, for the stream of mercy, where there is only coolness.
Every day, as the fire rises, so too does the volume of the cries. You remain bewildered, and it slowly begins to seem as if your sanity is slipping away. They are ankle-deep in the very holiness they mourn. Its waves lap against their skin, its spray kisses their faces, its blue light shimmers across their cheeks. It is the clearest thing in the world, no less present than ever before, and yet they weep as if abandoned in the desert. You speak gently at first, then louder, then with growing desperation, your voice hoarse but still audible, hands trembling but still pointing: "Here it is! Look — this stream!"
They raise their hands skyward, tears falling into the stream, yet still they wail of thirst. Your voice breaks against their deafness, your gestures fade into their blindness, they do not meet your eyes. How can they not see? The question tears at your soul until you feel yourself becoming transparent, a ghost by the water’s edge. Each loss rends you open, each act of violence threatening to turn you hollow.
A few — always a few — kneel with you beside the water. You wash the ash from your faces. Together you drink, pray, and say to the blind: See, here it is. But your voices are drops in an ocean of lamentation.
Eventually, you discover that despite feeling like a ghost, you are not one. Nor is the stream an illusion. The thirsty do, indeed, see. But there are groups amongst them. Some will offer you a glance, hearing you at last; they tell you they too love the stream, before turning away again, mourning the absence of what you just reminded them of. They sing the stream’s praises with their tongues, while their throats remain dry. They swear their recognition of it, while their hands do not reach to cup its water. They pray for its arrival, though it surrounds them.
You point, you plead, you cry until your voice frays like smoke. But they do not wish to listen to you any longer.
Some amongst them, the worst of them, add fuel to the fire while weeping with the others. They believe they are immune to the flames because they helped start them. They know they can not empty the stream, so decide they must kill those who guard it. But that is not enough for them. They build an army amongst the thirsty, until the skies are filled with echoes of curses against the stream. "This is no relief," they say, even as its spray lingers before them, the promised answer to their every prayer.
And when some among your small number rise — buckets in hand, hearts ablaze with purpose, for the mercy of the stream gifted them such bravery — they venture into the smoke. Their courage is fierce, their love undeniable. You wait for their return, praying they will come back.
But they never do.
For some of them, it was the fire. And in a tragedy beyond comprehension, for some, it was the multitudes themselves: the very lips that prayed for water, the very hands that begged for relief, struck them down. They trampled the water-bearers, drowning in thirst while standing in abundance. Burned themselves, they still found the energy to ridicule and strike those brave enough to not merely complain of the fire, but fight against it. You watch in horror as those who carried the stream are beaten down by those who wept of thirst, seeing their water bags pierced first to ensure the flame lives, and then the collapse of the men holding them. Again and again you see it, until your mind feels as weak as the crumbling Earth beneath you.
The older ones among you, those who have known the stream longer, offer warning and warmth. "Do not weep," they whisper, their eyes fixed on the blue. "Focus on the stream, that is all you can do." They have spent years watching this same tragedy repeat. They tell you tales of those who dared to speak of the stream before, each one extinguished as if they were the enemy, not the fire they sought to end. In every generation, they tell you, the water-bearers always pay the price.
Still, you weep. Not for the sacrifice of the stream defenders, for that is a glory only its seers know the sweetness of. No, you weep for those who build monuments to emptiness while salvation laps at their ankles, for those who build cisterns of stone and call them fountains, for those who pray endlessly for what has already been poured before them. And you weep for the blue, not because it falters, but because so few will drink of it while they yet live.
The stream lives on, constant as truth itself, pure as the first light of creation. It flows eternal, untouched, self-sufficient, unchanged by human blindness. Its waters flow in perfect constancy, whether under skies colored grey, copper, or navy — always reflecting the Divine in its depths.
Now, you can no longer scream into the smoke; you have wept yourself into exhaustion, finally turning to the stream once and for all, hoping to relieve the fatigue of your fallibility. Now, you hear the hum of the birds again, who remind you to sip from the salvation before you, soothe your throat, and pray to the One who created nature itself. Now, you know what the elders know, what the stream too whispers in its eternal song; truth is abundant, blindness is chosen. A day soon shall come where the ghosts can rest at last, and those who refuse to will be forced to see.
Until then, the faithful, precious few who remain offer a reminder: Stay by the stream. Whatever happens, don’t become blind to beauty unflinching, truth undying. Let the world burn in its blindness, let the multitudes deprive themselves of what they refuse to see. The blue will never cease to breathe.
“Truth has only a few friends.” — Imam Hussain ع
Brilliant