Echo Of The Forgotten Name Poem by Mystic Qalandar

We are not fallen, merely severed
from the root-carved Name.
Our fingers spin empires of crystal and code,
our voices ride electric storms,
yet the qalb mourns its primordial fire.

When the sacred shrinks to a marginal gloss,
cleverness chases its own tail.
But listen—
the seed must dissolve in the dark,
must surrender to the soil's cold hold,
before it rises in verdant command.

True dawn is born of deep listening.
This plunge—it is no abyss.
It is the archer's gathered breath,
the cord drawn to its trembling point,
the arrow, already singing,
bent upon its homing arc.

—December,21,2025