I Am Not Lost Poem by Mystic Qalandar

Somewhere I am not lost—
not in the race toward someone,
not in the flight from anyone;
not in the ash bowed before fire,
not in the hunger still learning to breathe.

I am not lost within this single breath—
suspended on a gleaming edge
between two eternities,
where the manifest hides and breathes
and time forgets its current.

Here I no longer chase the hidden.
It calls—
as an ancient tide remembers the moon,
as a forgotten name rises
from the lap of silence,
as a homeland older than memory wakes.

Yet I remain still.

The river does not find the ocean
by questioning every stone.
It bows
to the pull already written
into its nature.

Perhaps Truth has always walked
toward me with the patience
stars wear when they descend into night.
What belongs to my being
will come quietly to my feet.
What does not will pass,
without borrowing my name.

Why drink the ocean of knowledge
when a single drop,
so transparent it carries my reflection,
holds an ocean no horizon can end?

A clay vessel was not made
to contain the infinite.
It was fashioned
so the Beloved, unannounced,
might pass through ordinary rooms
and recognize its forgotten fragrance.

My nature bends to one question—
not spoken, not answered, but lived:

For what hidden song was this clay awakened?
Why did eternity borrow my flesh's brief tongue?

So I walk like one
who already was that person
before remembering his name—
without armor, without inscription,
so empty the breeze of mercy
might pause somewhere.

I do small work.
Visible work.
That trembling work placed
in the hand before the next breath.

For smallest fidelity
can hold the map of worlds.
Unseen kindness
can bend some hidden galaxy.
The dust on my hands
is a letter of the name
still being written into creation.

Then, when action returns to silence,
if I become more silent than thought,
more silent than desire,
more silent than the self that thinks it hears—
something touches the threshold of the heart.

Not the whole Truth—Truth needs no possession.
Only the hem of that limitless garment
passes through the room
where the soul remembers without memory.

A glimpse of the mirror—
not to see but to be seen;
not to hold but to be lost
in that gaze that has always been seeing.

And yet—
between seeing and saying,
between silence and tomorrow's borrowed self,
between the face and the countless masks
that answer to my name—
I forget.

Not the Truth—Truth cannot be lost.
It is closer than closeness itself.
I only forget my place
within its infinite expanse.

I forget I was never the seeker
nor the sought,
but that luminous interval
where both dissolve,
that hearing through which
eternity hears its own song,
that mirror whose ascension
is only in vanishing.

So I begin again.
Not from failure
but from memory's first dawn.

Not lost—
only briefly exiled in the story
I mistook for myself.

Every return is another creation.
Every forgetting
a deeper invitation to remember.

And somewhere,
beneath every name, before every beginning,
beyond every end,
the One who has always been finding me
waits without waiting—

until even my forgetting remembers itself
and returns to the light
from which it never departed.

─by MyKoul