A Call From The Primal Source Poem by Mystic Qalandar

A call from primal source—
a self-shaped pulse trembles unseen.
O Seeker, watch:
the final veils begin to tear.

The self's mirage thins
in twilight's soft barzakh,
that seam where One and Many
breathe the same thin air.

Divine alchemy unfolds:
legions winged in clay, inscribed
with scripts of radiant light,
envoys breaking Abraha's pride.

The hoopoe, Solomon's scout,
keeper of dawn's sealed script,
bears the queen's question,
undoing knots of luminous threads.

O Raven, witness to grief eternal,
who stood at Adam's waking,
you saw the secret of clay:
the primal dust's equality,
the first letter of Return.

Manna and salwa, equal hunger—
a prayer simmering in the belly;
completion dissolves,
annihilates—
thus turns the cosmic wheel.

Birds spring from Jesus' palms (A.S.) ,
held in God's paused breath;
then the command came: "Be! "
Flight bursts into flame.

Miracles unfold, sphere within sphere,
halos etching dawn's patterns;
every feather, a theophany,
every wing, a sacred verse.

Creation spins,
sphere within sphere,
in eternal remembrance
of the One.

—November,23,2025