Call Of Conscience Poem by Mohammad Younus

Conscience is not a thorn,
nor the weight of regret dragging behind you—
it is a star,
a needle quivering in the dark,
pointing toward the Kaaba of truth.
To listen is to strip away the I,
to stand bare before the mirror of eternity,
where every lie fractures, falling like ash.
Here, in the fire of surrender,
desires fade to embers,
and the river of meaning rises—
swift and silver,
carving its way back to the mouth of the divine.
When the self unravels,
two flames remain.
The first is love—
arriving unbidden,
a storm of grace shattering the glass
between you and the world.
It is the tide that swallows the shore,
leaving no trace of other.
You are the tree and the wind that stirs it,
the cry and the ear that hears.
Beneath this whirlwind hums purpose—
not the clatter of goals,
but the deep, earth-rooted drone of being.
It is the rock beneath the river,
the silent yes that anchors you
in the present's relentless flow.
Love lifts;
purpose steadies.
Together, they spin the world into being,
stitch by golden stitch.
Presence is the altar where all dualities burn.
The bird's trill spills into your lungs,
the river's pulse becomes your own.
You are no longer a thing that observes
but the space where observation dissolves—
where skin blurs into sky,
breath into breeze.
To be here is to stop hunting for love
or clawing toward purpose.
They are already the blood in your veins,
the light threading the cracks of your bones.
The self?
A ripple swallowed by the ocean.
What remains is vast, unnameable—
the Real, throbbing in every atom.
Now—
breathe.
The compass stirs in your chest,
steady as a heartbeat.
Let it draw you deeper,
beyond the fiction of separation.
You were never a fragment.
You are the cup and the wine,
the map and the terrain—
the One, dreaming itself awake.

— MyKoul