Conflict And Awakening Poem by Mystic Qalandar

Conflict grows from threads of illusion—
or perhaps illusion itself appears
in the mirror we hold
before our trembling gaze.

No thunder breaks the silence,
only the quiet lift of an eyebrow,
a leaf's tremble
in still forest air,
a subtle crack
in a held breath,
a glance slipping
like dawn light shifting
across the soul's restless sky.

We trace the lines of ancient maps,
naming roots that fade in shadow,
while beneath each spoken word
a hidden language weaves—
like vines through
the silent spaces
we believe we know.

Then, Awakening:
a calm voice
before which the spirit bows,
a call as gentle
as the wind's hush,
drawing the heart
toward a nearing presence—

a whisper resting
on shoulders touched
by unknowable grace,
like morning mist held
in the curve of a mountain.

In the stillness,
the unspoken kindles—
a sacred flame rising
like wildflowers blooming
from the shape of absence,
turning all speech
into faint echoes
of what is known
beyond sound.

And words return, gentle
as cleansing rain,
soft and patient,
falling into the heart
where the mind once faltered,
carrying what knowledge
could never hold,
cradled deep within
the quiet womb of wisdom,
like seeds resting calm
beneath the waiting earth.

In that shining silence,
all conflict loosens,
melts away—
simply,
by the grace that sees,
that knows,
that completes,
without a word.

—December,8,2025