I Will Not Trade My Pulse For Illusions Poem by Mohammad Younus

I will not trade my pulse for illusions,
nor let hollow echoes carve my worth.
I am no shadow, no borrowed name,
no clay for their molding hands.

Why should I bow to the shifting tide,
let flickering screens eclipse my fire?
Let their voices crumble—dust on the wind.
I am no thread to be unraveled,
no shard to be cast in their mold.

We are not echoes, not fading reflections,
but currents in the eternal storm.
Each breath, a hymn of remembrance,
each heartbeat, the rhythm of galaxies turning.

I may be a wave, yet I am the ocean,
woven from the first light, the pulse of all things.
This body—fleeting, a ripple in time,
but my soul sings the anthem of unity.

And you, child—no wanderer in their wasteland.
Your soul hums that same eternal tune:
the falcon's cry cleaving the dawn,
the river murmuring secrets to stone,
the unseen roots of the tree of life,
the ember smoldering beneath the soil.

They call it lifeless—this silence, this dust, this void.
Fools. Even stillness cradles the memory of the sun.
The stone bears the weight of ancient prayers,
its surface worn smooth by whispered devotions.
The comet etches its saga across the void.

We are not fragments—we are the prism.
The universe is not mere design—
it is the breath of the Divine, unfolding,
reshaping with each pulse—
in the shimmer of a droplet,
in the wind carving the mountain's face,
in the light birthing dawn from night.

So let their strings fray.
Let the veils be torn.
I will keep my soul untethered,
my spirit wild—
a song no cage can hold,
a flame swallowed by the sun.

—MyKoul