Beyond The Glowing Golden Screen Poem by Mystic Qalandar

In these bright days,
when every hand holds a glowing golden screen,
I watch the modern human—
content in their small circle of light,
lost in the illusion of permanence,
believing illumination is only
what shines upon the surface,
forgetting the shadow
silently waiting behind it.

Near them, a mystic lifts an ancient mirror—
not a glass of reflected forms,
but a still lake of silence
that enters the eye like a soft breath,
stirring hidden rooms of the heart
where even language rises and dissolves.

The mystic asks,
"What is presence? "
A simple question,
yet beneath it,
an ocean breathes.

The human smiles, then pauses—
thinking, then sensing—
as the question rings
in the secret chambers of being,
echoing in places
where only truth can reach.

They whisper:
Presence is a fragile breath
between seen and unseen,
a subtle glow
in the forest between being and nothingness,
a thread of dawn
stretched between dream and awakening—
neither fully visible, nor gone,
but dwelling like a quiet messenger
in the soul's eternal tension.

We run through the world's noise—
signals, pulses, endless echoes—
until at last
the race folds into itself,
and everything becomes still.
Then, in the vast quiet,
a lesson unfolds:

Beyond noise is a center—
soft, radiant,
never shouting,
yet calling in every moment
with a voice only
the heart can hear.

Machines continue their restless march—
counting, mapping, arranging—
yet they cannot cross
the threshold of consciousness.
Only humans, that wondrous breath,
can sit in silence
and awaken—
like a lotus opening under moonlight,
like a river shaping its own secret path.

Instinct knows the forest
by depth alone,
and the human soul
tastes annihilation and eternity
in a single breath—
touching the invisible,
forever free,
whispering,
I am here.
In every breath.
In every moment.

Still the modern human remains
absorbed in their bright circle,
as if the universe has folded
into their trembling hands.
And the mystic, standing between worlds,
builds a bridge of dust and light,
gazing toward horizons
where time sheds its fear,
and the Now
becomes a door always open.

True intelligence is no crafted code—
it is presence,
it is stillness,
it is the lamp lit within the dark
when the heart returns
to its sacred home.
No machine can kindle this fire—
it is the alchemy of mercy,
the pulse of wisdom,
the eternal breath
travelling through starlight
to reach the human core.

A human rises beyond the machine
when they pause—
when they remember
the ancient calm,
and beyond the trembling screen
touch the mystery
that breathes so near.

Stay curious.
Stay awake.
And if the mystic asks again,
"What is presence? "
let your answer be placed
in a soft wave of light—
like dawn knocking gently
at the heart's door.

—December,4,2025