Facsimile Of Mother Poem by Mystic Qalandar

Mother—
am I not your facsimile,
the echo you breathed into listening time,
the syllable you concealed within silence
until silence itself longed for a voice?

Before I was a name adrift among names,
before memory learned the weight of forgetting,
I rested, whole and unbroken,
in the fathomless womb of your stillness.

No distance between breath and the Breather.
No horizon between light and its radiance.
Only the seamlessness
from which all worlds quietly awaken.

Mother—
you did not create me.
Creation belongs to time.
You remembered me into timelessness,
lent me the invisible music of your being
until it bloomed as form—
as though I were a note
never absent,
only unheard.

Then I crossed:
from the unborn into beginnings,
from boundlessness into measure,
from the nameless
into the countless garments of names.
I called this birth.
You called it forgetfulness.

I wandered.
Mistook mirrors for faces,
echoes for voices,
desire for destiny,
every fragment for the Whole
I had never truly left.

Mother—
yet every longing
was only your gravity
drawing me through
the labyrinth of becoming.
Every love—
your fragrance lingering
in transient flowers.
Every sorrow—
a veil growing thinner.
Every joy—
the sudden remembrance
of a home
memory could never erase.

Mother—
you followed without pursuing,
called without sound,
waited without time.

When I believed I had abandoned you,
it was only my shadow
mistaking itself for the sun.
When I searched the heavens,
you were the boundless space
through which I searched.
When I entered the sanctuaries of the wise,
you were the silence between their words.
When I descended into my own heart,
I found no stranger—
only the tenderness
that had always worn my face.

Then I understood:
You were never before me.
You were never behind me.
You were the depth within every step,
the still point
around which my centuries of becoming
had quietly turned.

Mother—
you are not another.
You are the hidden root
drawing life through every root
I mistook for my own.
You are the unseen ocean
dreaming itself as every wave,
the silent fire warming every star,
the single breath unfolding through the cosmos
as every living breath.

And I—
what am I
if not your remembering
becoming aware of itself?

Not a copy.
Not a fragment.
Not an exile returning home.

For how can the sea be exiled from its waves,
or light from its own radiance?

I am your gaze
looking inward through these eyes,
your listening hidden within these ears,
your silence discovering the music
it has always been.

Mother—
the journey is ending
where it never began.

The child was a beautiful dream.
The seeker was a sacred disguise.
The path was the circle remembrance traced
until it awakened to the truth
that there was never another.

Only the One
who, in infinite tenderness,
became both Mother and child,
the Lover and the beloved,
the Remembering and the remembered—
so that Love might awaken
to the wonder
of knowing itself.

─MyKoul