Greater Jihad Poem by Mystic Qalandar

War with the self — the Greater Jihad.
We have returned from the Lesser Jihad,
From the field of blood
Where the swords sang.
Now we stand upon
The truer battlefield,
Where the fiercest enemy
Is the self.

We take to heart the Prophet's command —
A pearl of guidance,
Soft and kind,
Yet hidden deep,
Where the cunning self
Scatters false pearls,
Glittering lies to snare the heart.
But the real pearl
Is that command
Which saves,
Which lights the way.

This war has no end.
The enemy waits in patience,
Master of disguise.
Sometimes it comes
With an open face;
Often it moves unseen,
Clothed in piety,
In the false simplicity
Of counterfeit Sufi words,
In the smiling lips of deceivers,
Or crouched in shadow,
Ready to strike.

To endure,
Dig a trench —
The ancient strategy of prophets —
And take refuge within it:
The soft lap of Essence,
The sanctuary of the Divine,
Sheltering you
From the dust of sin.
Thus you are spared
The fields of blood.

The self hunts your weakness,
Feeds on your worries,
Breeds your regrets.
It draws you
Toward a barren place
Where return is hard,
Sometimes impossible.
It longs to keep you there,
Bound forever —
And beyond this life,
Only the fire of hell,
Hell that cries:
"Is there any more? "

The self is hell's faithful agent,
Restless to claim you,
Panting for your fall.
That is its mission.
That is its work.