Being And Becoming Poem by Mystic Qalandar

Being and Becoming

When I become the metaphor
of Being and Becoming,
the devotees of frozen stillness
will sense the fissure—
how beneath my feet
this slumbering dust
recalls its first breath,
that primordial hiccup,
that first shudder
before form accepted flesh,
before name accepted fate.

When silence inscribes
my bones like scripture,
it is read like tablets of the unseen.
I dwell in that empty, wakeful hermitage—
mere echo-chamber where no dervish
has yet learned to hold
stillness in his own absence.

So I shed that shroud of silence—
woven from
fear of hell or wish for paradise,
from the opium of ritual—
and descend into
the alembic of intention.
Do not turn away.
Come close;
place your hands upon mine—
not to be bound,
but so you may witness
how a radiance,
sown in another's quaking heart,
becomes myriad light,
how a single spark,
held with reverence,
ignites as a star
in some wanderer's
dark archway.

Before my foot scatters
the dust of this threshold,
tell me:
whose midnight summoned me?
Which disciple, eclipse-like,
awaits the spear of light?
Which beloved answers me
from that corridor of annihilation?

My word was never given
for the covenant of names—
this luminous, borrowed wick
is entrusted to those
who still trace the contours
of shadows in that corridor
where selfhood dissolves,
where walls breathe,
where the floor recalls
it was once sky,
and the heart learns to answer
that ancient question:
Am I not your Lord.

Every step of mine is that seed
of permanence
that blooms and multiplies;
my sitting and rising chant
being into the dust of common roads—
until even that mute pebble
recalls its first, unclothed rhythm,
and shatters, in the beloved's embrace,
into that unbearable anthem
which is the sheer music of I am—
heard so deeply that existence
itself forgets its own name.

—MyKoul