I Believed In The Soul Poem by Mohammad Younus

I believed in the soul
as one believes in the sun,
trusted it like breath,
blind to galaxies in my veins,
deaf to stars in my bones.

Then wonder pierced me:
What is this essence—
not mind, not heart,
but the quiet between ticks,
the hush beneath hymns?

I searched the world,
turned it inside out,
dug through scriptures,
scaled philosophies,
dissected body and bone,
only to find maps leading back to myself.

I peeled away layers of knowing,
stood raw, a nerve exposed—
and there, in the hollow,
I saw: I was the veil over my own soul,
stitched from fear, dyed in doubt.

The scales fell with a sigh.
The believer, the seeker, the weeper—
all ripples in an endless sea.

I thanked the darkness,
blessed the veil,
for when it lifted,
the mirror of my soul
was not glass, but space—
reflecting the fox, the beggar, the crow,
the cliff meeting the tide.

Now I walk as stranger and kin:
the child's laugh, my laughter;
the widow's silence, my own.
I am the wound and the salve,
the question and the answer.

Every soul, a facet of mine;
my soul, a shard of the Whole.

When the last veil dissolved,
I saw: "I" is a pronoun borrowed by the wind,
returned to the mouths of mountains.

I am the chinar's grip, the comet's tail,
the wolf's hunger, the river's flow.
I am the first cell's gasp,
the last sunset's blush,
the cry that births a universe,
the silence that swallows it whole.

Ask my name, and I'll point to the sky—
not the stars, but the infinite between.
Look for me in the pause before prayer,
in the crack where lost and found converge.

The mirror has no owner, no frame—
it is the gaze that gazes back from all things.

When you still your why's and how's,
you'll feel it:
the breath you've borrowed
is the same that sways the wheat,
wears down stone.

Trace the glass,
find your fingertip missing—
and in that luminous absence,
you'll understand:
You've been the poem all along.

MyKoul