Heirs Of The Primordial Covenant Poem by Mystic Qalandar

In the beginning—
when dust inclined
toward the first light,
and silence cracked its own shell—
the universe trembled with recognition.

A voice, older than time, whispered:
"We made you from man and woman,
cast you into tribes
as mirrors of a single breath,
that you might know one another—
not by name, nor by sign,
but by the truth that burns unseen."

Time spiraled, an eternal return—
each age a petal of dawn reborn.
Stars became tribes of longing,
planets, hymns of remembrance.
Humanity—
the forgotten dream of the Infinite—
sought itself in the shadow of fear.

We forgot our origin
in the Beloved's sigh,
building walls where
bridges of dawn once stood.
Eyes hardened to steel,
hearts fractured the reflection
that once showed God gazing back.

I have seen it—
beneath Gaza's crimson sky,
where angels mourn
the shattered music of creation.
The light that once lit the darkness,
with Lord's mercy and grace,
now lay buried in the dust.

And the earth whispers her pain:
"Do not divide my children—
for I am the cradle of your beginning,
and the keeper of your return."

Then the heavens answer, like a rising tide:
"Remember the covenant—
when water bowed to Noah's faith,
when burning wood blossomed
for Abraham in Namrud's fire,
when the sea parted for Moses,
making way and drowning
Pharaoh with his hordes,
when Jesus was lifted—
neither slain nor broken,
and Muhammad was declared to be
the prophet of the final message of Oneness.

Faith is One.
Mothers are many,
but the womb of light is One."

That is lita‘ārafū—
to know, to be known,
to dissolve into recognition.
That is bil-ma‘rūf—
where justice is molten gold,
poured into the mold of mercy,
and gentleness stands
with the strength of mountains.

O traveler of veiled realms,
you are not merely passing through—
you are the archive of the First Pact,
the pulse where dust remembers the Infinite.
The blood in your veins hums with prophethood,
a river carved through timeless mind.
Their voices echo in your breath:
the dawn can rise again.

Awaken that call.
Summon a peace
that unmakes the sword,
that softens the enemy
into an embrace,
that turns the heart into
sanctuary once more.

Remember:
Allah's rope is not woven
of hours or heavens—
it is spun from the orbit of the heart.
Hold fast to it,
for it binds essence to eternity,
earth to celestial fire.
In its knots lies
the dream of Oneness, reborn.

And when the last bird
folds its wings,
and every atom hums
with the echo of prayer,
humanity will recall:
Peace is an inward flowering,
not a gift of stars.

Where the heart rests in silence,
the throne of God begins.
From that silence, light rises—
kissing the skin of time,
waking sleeping eternity,
and summoning the soul—
the Heir of the Primordial Covenant.

—October,11,2025