I Conceal My Secrets Poem by Mystic Qalandar

I conceal my secrets
behind my throat—
imprisoned there,
so they may not break the silence
between me and the Beyond of the Beyond,
where Truth descends in its soundless radiance.

For I know a truth
that the deniers of Wahdat al-Wujūd
do not wish to hear.
Not those 'heavy trusts'
that Al-Haqq breathed into my heart,
nor those piercing fragments of multiplicity—
bursting forth as the fixed archetypes of Pure Being—
those secrets
beyond the reach of their reason,
before which
their sight returns empty.

They hear, but as though
rain were knocking upon sealed windows—
Sirr Huwa al-Mawjūd
never truly enters their perception.

They make it seem
that all things stand apart,
each possessing its own independent existence,
only because the religion of duality
has deceived them into believing
that reality itself must be so.

To mistake illusion for truth
is, for them,
far easier
than confessing Haqq al-Haqq.
And so they
swallow every call of unity,
and those calls
settle in the oceans of their chests
like stones—
layer upon layer, sinking still.

If I were to speak plainly,
if I were to
draw open the thread of every smoldering secret
within the gnosis of unity—
I know
their illusions
would shatter and scatter.

But if they
open the ear of the heart and listen,
then a single moment's crack would suffice—
one fracture in the layers of illusion,
one dissolution
that carries them
from this shore to that shore,
where unity
is not merely understood—
it is felt.

That is why
I guard these secrets of unity,
keep them safe for you—
as one holds a goblet of Kawthar
in trembling hands,
lest it spill,
lest the wine of gnosis
touch the lips before the heart is ready.

The manifestation of absolute unity
never ceases;
it continues forever
to reveal itself.

And when
I return to silence,
I am left alone
with the absolute unity of all—
with those secrets
that can never be uttered in words.

And these unspoken things
pierce me more deeply than speech,
so that I,
like the reed flute,
through forests, wilderness, cities, and bazaars,
to every soul, common and rare,
may continue carrying
that one singular call.

— MyKoul