He Stirs Within The Womb Of Night Poem by Mohammad Younus

He stirs within the womb of night—
a pulse of gold unravels the veil,
each dawn unveiling His own face,
a mirror held to infinite grace.

The world, His breath made visible,
each stone a hymn, each shadow a verse,
as light pours from His nameless throat
to clothe the dust in galaxies.

Nothing exists beyond His gaze—
the cracked jug brims with sacred wine,
the beggar's bowl becomes a shrine.
All edges blur: the moth's wing,
the king's crown, the wound, the kiss—
one luminous anatomy.

He wears the rags of time and space
to meet Himself in every trace.
At dusk, He gathers the fraying light,
swallows the horizon's amber sigh.
Yet this is no retreat, no end—
He folds the sky into His palm
to dream anew.

The stars are seeds
sown in the soil of His ceaseless mind.
Night's womb hums with tomorrow's dawn,
for He is both the fire and the Phoenix born.

What is unlike Him?
The question melts
like snow upon His eternal tongue.
All form, His faceless face,
all sound, His silent aria.
The void—His chalice. Chaos—His dance.

He need not seek, nor call, nor wait—
He is the seeker and the sought,
the whisper, the echo, the ache, the answer.
No blade of grass splits His embrace,
the finite breathes His infinite name.

And when the pilgrim lifts her eyes,
she meets her own reflection there—
His eyes, her eyes, one gilded stare.
The Beloved, awake in all disguise,
kneels to adore His mirrored skies,
while heaven, earth, and hell conspire
to burn as wicks in His one pyre.

Eternal, this game of hide-and-seek—
He veils Himself to blaze, unbound,
in every shard of shattered ground.
Nothing dies. All dawns are His breath,
reclaiming what was never lost.
The end writes the start in molten script:
All you see is My lips meeting My lips.

MyKoul