Come Good Seasons, Come Poem by Mystic Qalandar

Here in my quiet living room,
near the shore of my heart,
I see once more with inner sight
the winter of my younger days in Kashmir,
arriving after autumn's golden rites—

when the valley, robed in amber light,
began to turn her colours,
from living green
to yellow and to gold,
as paddy ripened for the harvest.

I still remember
the lively stir of villages—
peasants and labourers bending low
to the golden crop,
bearing it home upon their backs
to compounds and courtyards,
while a simple happiness
walked beside each household.

Ripening apples,
walnuts gathered from the boughs,
the fragrance of saffron fields,
the quiet fever of the harvest—
a rhythm older than memory,
kept since the first seed
was laid in the earth's dark womb,
where the unseen
waits to become visible.

Most beautiful of all
were the Chinar trees:
majestic, patient,
shedding summer's green
into magnificent gold,
as though nature herself
were setting the valley alight
with one last prayer
before winter's silence.

Yet beneath that silence
something remains—
the tree, the earth, the seed,
the hidden pulse of life
moving through another season.

The weather—
neither summer nor winter,
sometimes pleasantly warm,
sometimes gently cool—
and that subtle shift in the air
gave me an inexplicable contentment,
as if the unseen
were breathing through the world,
and the visible
were only a veil
over what cannot be seen.

These scenes return to me
as my own mystic story of life,
with extraordinary clarity:
fragments of my being
deeply woven into
the landscape,
the people,
the fragrances
of my homeland—

as though what I once saw
outside myself
had quietly become
a part of what I am.

Today,
while the whole world burns
and my Kashmir lies brutalised,
my heart quietly travels back
to those golden fields,
apple orchards,
walnut trees,
and Chinars of Kashmir,

reminding me
that no season is forever,
that darkness too
belongs to the turning wheel,
and that spiritual and divine seasons
of peace and liberty
may return.

For seasons are cyclical—
they pass,
they return;
forms change,
but life continues
through the changing forms.

And perhaps
what returns is not the past
but its hidden essence—
to awaken once again
within us.

Come,
good seasons,
come.

—MyKoul