Freezers Will, Not Compulsion Poem by Mystic Qalandar

A brazen needle travels o'er the page
and carves a silent covenant in lead—
a circling path that falls back to its source,
not as a cage but pattern for the hand.

As planets keep the measure of their spheres,
so does the compass bend itself to course.

Yet in the iron dwells no true desire;
the needle knows no hope, nor any grief,
but turns obedient to appointed law,
as does a key that sleeps within the lock.

Your palm it is that lends the metal will;
your fingers teach the stubborn steel the heavens.

For Qadar is not Jabar's iron chain,
nor does decree make captive of the soul.

Imagine fate a city set in draft:
the roads marked out, the boundaries designed,
yet still the mason chooses what shall rise—
the height of towers and the breadth of light,
what windows greet the morning with their gold,
what doors stand fast against the winter storm.

Compulsion is another's hand at work,
a barren scheme untouched by wind or rain.

But one who lays the brick before the dawn,
and wires dim chambers deep into the night,
who drinks cold coffee while the hours grow thin—
that one meets fate as partner in the craft,
not as a prisoner bound unto the wheel.

Mark how the arc returning to its center
becomes the seed from which new courses spring:
each choice redraws the boundaries of the map
and alters what the future may become.

The compass hearkens unto distant stars,
yet answers too the silence of your hand.

Then guide it well, and let intention steer,
for choice alone gives motion unto fate.

Within the chambered forge of what may be,
the instruments await the worker's grasp.

The vessel stands prepared, the fire made warm,
yet still the hand must pour the living draught.

And those who yield their motion unto others
win hollow honors polished bright as brass—
mere warrants void of road or reckoning,
acclaim proclaimed, not glory earned through weather,
through toil, and weight.

But when you take the compass for your own
and steer by pulse and breath instead of fear,
the circle grows a chronicle of will,
a witness set against the march of time.

Destiny is no iron-wrought machine,
though grievous limits hedge the steps of men.

Each deed awaits the sanction of your soul—
free will remains the architect of life,
and choice the mason laying course on course.

Thus is success, when fashioned by your hand,
both the marked origin and the map renewed.
— MyKoul