Dawn Song: An Existential Prayer Poem by Mystic Qalandar

O Absolute Being,
let me hear the song of Your beauty—
not hear alone,
but from the dark well of existence
catch the echo of Your voice.

Then, in the morning's song,
I would set out from eternity toward eternity—
a traveler who knows no road
yet knows the fragrance of the destination.

I would sing on,
as birds sing, longing for permanence;
as honeybees, drunk on the nectar of eternal love,
hum the secrets of flowers;
as insects, beneath night's curtain of silence,
sing the mysteries of being;
as frogs lift their heads from the deep water
and croak Your praise;
as the ringdove, in ecstasy, coos;
as the wild pigeon, when the first ray breaks,
chants Subhan in the raga of ghutar-ghun—
and I, falling into their harmony,
would find in every voice the secret of permanence,
and know myself
the echo of the Primal Sound.

Then I would become the breeze of dawn—
not air alone
but the lover's soul in metaphor,
who beholds his waking dreams
with a bold modesty,
a Sufi lifting the veil
with the arrow-lashes of love.

And light—the ray of the First Intellect—
would unfold the old tales
that night kept folded in its curtains,
so that these innocent eyes,
washed of sleep's burden,
might greet a new day—Yours—
and read in every drop of dew
the poetry of Perfection:
each drop a mirror of the Divine Face.

I would dance with the rays that herald morning—
not dance only,
but in the dance of being
arrive at ecstasy,
and sway with the farmers who sing
as they sow the earth and as they reap the Lord's bounty—
songs that are prayers, mantras,
bridges between earth and sky.

Where dreams once were—
possibilities hidden in the depths of non-existence—
gardens now smile, heavy with vine and fruit:
the smile of existence
remembering non-existence.

Into the wine of morning—
wine of ecstasy, wine of gnosis—
I would pour the essence of love,
the essence of eternal passion.

In the breast of the universe,
in praise of the secrets it hides,
I would compose one incomparable poem,
lose myself in the magic of its verses—
from magic to poetry,
from poetry to magic—
and give every couplet to Your name alone,
the Greatest Name,
written in the light of morning,
legible even in the dark of night.

My words would become the rising wind
that wakes the Illiyyin to flight—
flight, the longing to ascend;
ascent, the journey toward union.

The day is coming; the night,
symbol of the self's darkness,
is nearly spent.

I stretch out my hands
toward words beyond my reach,
beyond my capacity—
capacity, the border of mortal life.

Dazzled by a beauty
that is only the reflection of the Beautiful,
how could I arrange verses
worthy of so dignified a morning?

Then—silence.

When Absolute Beauty appears,
why words?
When Oneness is found,
why poetry?
When being outgrows its capacity,
why song?

So I fall silent,
and this silence
is my loftiest poem,
for Your name.

Every couplet a prayer,
every word a mantra,
every breath worship—
for in the search for Absolute Beauty,
to find oneself
is permanence.

—MyKoul