A Deep Secret: A Sequence Poem by Mystic Qalandar

I. Twilight

This is no final breath of the setting sun,
but a hidden door
where fire gathers in its red tongues
and descends into some eternal mystery of light—
as though light, at its ending,
recognizes its own beginning.

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II. Winter Sky

This does not cast night's black veil
over the bright face of day,
but returns appearance to its true state: concealment;
as a lover
might gather in his own radiance
and draw it back into his depths
so the beloved's gaze may receive the vision.

Then night descends—
not like time,
but like some silent pause of eternity
that always existed behind every moment;
like the silence between words
in which all speech remains hidden.

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III. The Tremor

A familiar tremor—
not in the wind, not in the stars—
rises from those layers of consciousness
where names had not yet been born,
where light chose, in order to see itself,
to become the dream of the universe—
a dream
not yet awakened,
and yet awake since before time.

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IV. The Moon

The moon holds no light of its own.
It is a silent witness, a mirror,
endlessly inscribing the hidden presence
of the absent sun upon night's brow—
so that darkness too may see its reflection.

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V. Reflection

I think—
perhaps everything is the light of something else,
and every being a reflection of some unseen center,
as droplets recognize the ocean
within their own wave.

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VI. Memory

Now memories
rise to the surface of consciousness
not from oblivion's dark sack,
but from the soul's ancient well—
like the glimmer of some forgotten star
upon deep water.

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VII. The Turning

The silence is so deep
that even the sound of falling leaves
seems not the tree's own,
but the sound of another page of time turning,
inscribed with someone else's writing,
whose art of reading we have forgotten.

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VIII. Jasmine

The fragrance of the night-blooming jasmine
does not scatter in the air—
it blooms in some forgotten garden of the inward self,
where flowers open
but no one is there to see,
only seeing itself remains,
watching itself.

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IX. The Companion

And in silent rooms
this is not solitude,
but the self's unseen companion
who is both question and answer—
as a call and its echo
dwell in a single utterance.

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X. Presence

I sit in this presence
where the seer, the seen,
and the act of seeing
are no longer three,
but become three colors of a single wave,
a single radiance unfolding in three layers of one silence.

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XI. The Secret

Now only one subtle secret remains—
the same secret that turns the stars,
that gives meaning to dreams,
and makes a stranger of man within his own depths—
a stranger
who seems familiar only in his strangeness.

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XII. After Presence

Now, after this presence,
what form of seeking can remain?
when the seeking itself, the gift,
and the giver
dissolve into a single point?

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XIII. Silence

Only silence remains—
the silence that has spoken,
been heard,
and spoken again—
but not from anyone,
rather from some place
beyond the very boundaries of being.

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— Mykoul