Endless Corridors Poem by Mystic Qalandar

Endless Corridors

So—harmony,
unbelievable:
if I am not apart
from the boundless expanse,
then who gazes through these eyes?
Who moves this clay,
and who first breathed the word "I"?

Is it the ancient breath
that stirs unseen within the vessel—
or the mind,
restless, forever weaving illusions?
Yet who is the weaver,
and who peers through the weave?

If I flee as though the end
were already upon me,
what end is it I fear?
And if I ache to be human again,
what is this "human"?
A cry caught in dust,
or dust dreaming of its own cry?

From the abyss of Wajud
something stirs, something rises.
But what—
the vessel,
the spark,
or the space between them?

Is the light a current without source,
or the source disguised as current?
If fire burns without fuel,
whose fire is it?
Can a flame illumine itself,
or is it shadow
pretending to shine?

So tell me—
I am lamp, I am flame,
I am the tremor that moves between,
the breath that shapes clay,
the spark that wakes the abyss.

I am dust that dreams it cries,
and the cry that returns to dust.
I am the question itself,
and these endless corridors I wander
are no prison,
but my own becoming.

No door opens, no door closes,
and still I pass through all—
the human, the divine,
the space that holds them both together,
whole, luminous,
without end.

—September,16,2025