Existence Has No Beginning Ever Poem by Mystic Qalandar

What we name a beginning
may be merely lifting
a frayed thread—
then threading the shuttle anew
across the loom of Being,
weaving the seamless Whole
only seers glimpse
in Nothingness' flawless mirror.

It could be a book left half-read,
not from sloth or neglect,
but poised for unwritten chapters—
the volume completing itself
as the seeker takes up the pen,
dipping it in ink turned elixir
once the heart thirsts for the Divine.

It might be the first monsoon's grace,
mercy cascading from the Unseen,
rinsing dust from the earth
until the timeless Path remembers itself,
stripped bare beneath thunder's call—
the Reminder of the One.

It may be the sun emerging from eclipse,
or the moon—a sacred crescent brow—
swelling whole from the primal Dark,
that Void where Light is ever born.

It could be a melody long stilled,
yet tuned to the soul's hidden pulse,
resurrected in the prayer of return.
Or the ink finally descending,
dark nectar sealing the unfinished Word—
the breath that gives life to the hush.

Or perhaps the eclipse itself:
the Beloved veiling His Face,
not to dim the Flame,
but to temper the lover's sight
in the forge of sunless vision—
where lover and Loved dissolve
into the Singular Gaze.

—January,13,2026