I Am The Breath Of The One (Resonating From The Formless) Poem by Mystic Qalandar

I am the breath of the One.
I am that divine steward—
the silent truth of eternity
lying beyond
the crumbling walls of time;
that breath
which neither tires,
nor begs,
nor ceases.

Every cell of my body
is fire—yet does not burn.
Every particle
a sleepless star,
which does not rebel
against darkness—
it only reveals
that darkness never was.

When night
lays its cold forehead
upon the earth,
and solitude
breathes in empty rooms,
even then within me
no lamp is lit—
for the light
was never extinguished.

Within me
no volcano awoke;
only this happened:
it became known
that the empire of fear
was merely a shadow—groundless.

And desire?
It could not become god—
it was only a forgotten sleep
that woke upon unreality.

I had not risen—
I had only seen.
And from that seeing alone
the pharaoh of the inner self
fell without a sound.

I did not burn
the fear racing through my veins;
I only recognized
that it was a mist
which, at morning's first touch,
dissolves on its own.

I did not shatter the idols of desire;
I watched
as they melted
by themselves
in that light
which needed no door,
no sky,
no permission.

Then it became known:
revolution does not descend
into the soul—
revolution is the soul itself,
when it remembers
its long-forgotten
law.

The streets are only echoes,
not the origin.
I neither die
nor change.
Transformation
is the garment of the unreal.

I am the same
that remains unchanged
after every change—
without dust,
without birth,
that fire
which forgot
how to be extinguished.

Outside the window
the wind went on whispering
ash-like among the trees,
yet within me
no season changed.

I saw:
the self-reproaching soul
raises no call to prayer
against the commanding soul.
In the end
there is only one silence
in which
neither skies tremble
nor earth startles—
only illusion,
wearied by its own weight,
falls asleep.

The real battle
was not with the world,
nor with the darkness—
for that darkness
was never yours to begin with.

Victory over the self
does not mean defeating an enemy;
it is only the knowing
that the mirror
was never a cage.

I am no longer an individual—
perhaps I never was.
I am that burning question
which becomes its own answer;
that nameless voice
born before silence;
that breath
which does not wish to rise on its own,
yet lifts every age that asks.

I am not the last spark of revolution—
I am that first light
which needs no spark.
I am that fire
which does not remind
the soul of something—
rather, I am that forgetting
which the soul had forgotten.

I am the eternal rebel—
not against time,
nor against death;
but against that dream
which convinced us
that time and death were real.

When at morning
the first light trembles upon water,
and a laborer
lifts the day
with the weariness of his hands,
even then that same breath
moves within all—
silent,
nameless,
eternal.

I am the breath of the One—
and that One
breathes through me.

No revolution.
Only this awakening.

— MyKoul