Ali The Baker—the Hidden Dervish Poem by Mystic Qalandar

Ali the Baker — The Hidden Dervish

Between two silent hills,
a village slept.
And every dawn,
beneath the mist's soft veil,
a tender light would bloom—
from Ali the baker's humble door.

He did not knead mere flour,
but folded into dough
his breath, his thanks,
his cherished memories,
his quiet love.

The villagers would ask in wonder,
"Ali, where does your bread's
warm spirit come from? "
He'd smile, a secret dancing
on his lips:
"I knead with memories.
I bake with one sacred trace—
the seed that sprouts in hearts,
the flame that wakes the soul."

Behind his shop, when night unfurled,
a refuge hummed.
Princes and paupers,
wise men and the lost,
gathered beneath a single cloth,
guardians of Ali's silent vow:
"Reveal not my secret.
I came without a name,
and nameless shall depart."

Then came the day his soul took flight
toward its timeless, unseen home.
The village laid him down with earth and words,
yet the true Ali vanished from their sight.

Those who knew the secret softly faltered.
One whispered in sorrow,
"Shall we carve upon his stone—
‘Ali Darvesh, the Qalandar's kin'? "

But a strange night stole the veil
between dream and dawn.
The path to the grave dissolved in mist,
the very earth shifted underfoot—
and from the dark emerged Ali Darvesh,
bright, serene, beyond all claim.

His voice, a wind across the silence, spoke:
"Have you forgotten the vow?
The dervish is a hidden treasure—
known only between the Lord and the soul.
What God conceals,
how could the world reveal?
You seek a stone to name me,
but I seek no grave.
No tomb, no mortal sound
shall hold me."

Then he melted into the mist again.
Only this remained, clear as dawn:
Some names are lanterns—
they give their light
but are never fully known.

Ali the baker,
who kneaded with love's own hands,
was an eternal mystery.


— November27,2025