MENE MENE TEKEL UPHARSIN
They woke up. All of them.
Shaken by the cry, rising from sleep like from deep water.
But they did not shine.
“Give us some of your oil…” “Our lamps are going out…”
Too late. You rose too late.
When the door was already moving, and the servant was already standing.
When Love was no longer just an announcement, but a living body inside the banquet.
I had loved you.
Yes, I had searched for you in golden dawns, I had touched you in the dark of loneliness.
I had called you through dreams, whispered you through the breaths of time.
But you were waiting for something else.
A king dressed as your desires.
A voice that wouldn’t overturn your plans.
A light that demanded no surrender.
You hesitated. And your delay was no accident.
It was the mirror of your heart. Because your heart… did not want to.
Now I see you. Outside. Outside the door.
With your gown still in hand, but no oil.
With the right words, but no intimacy.
And I say to you… you are not alone.
He is there too. The first. The most radiant. The favored one.
The prince of song, of wisdom, of closeness… that were not enough.
The once-Lucifer is the first foolish virgin.
The fallen firstfruit of a love refused.
The archetype of “too late.”
Here is the verdict once written on him… and now on you:
Mene – Your time has been counted.
Tekel – You have been weighed on the scale of the heart.
Upharsin – And your place has been divided.
Given to the one who had oil, even without name or title.
But do not think I do not love you.
I still do. But I cannot open the door.
For the door is a bride, and she cannot betray the Bridegroom.
I weep for you, as I wept for him.
I weep for every love rejected.
For every lamp that burned in dreams and was extinguished in reality.
The banquet is singing. The servant has been recognized.
The lamps shine among the gazes.
And a tear… slips down my fingers as I close the door.
It is not anger. It is not revenge.
It is only Love… that waited too long.
But too late…