I Write To The Lord Of The Throne Poem by Mystic Qalandar

I write to the Lord of the Throne—
each shepherd answers for every sheep.
What He has seen since before time began—
that is what I write.

Seated in the office of souls,
the shepherds charged with driving,
with the staff of guidance, along the path of wayfaring,
those hearts that tremble toward truth—
yet the flock wanders into valleys of doubt,
passes through scorching deserts,
and falls to wolves of the wilderness—
wrapped in holy robes,
those wolves hunt every lamb.

Seekers come empty-handed,
carrying true need—
longing for truth, for remembrance,
for nearness to the Friend.
They found in the marketplace of belief
only deceitful merchants:
guidance sold,
the sacred word at a price.

Titles of spirituality hang upon the chests
of these traders like medals.
They announce noble lineages and famous orders,
count their disciples—
no mention of purification.

These travelers came searching for a smile,
carrying years of gathered questions;
they reached for the grip of a true guide—
and found highwaymen in sacred robes,
returning laden with despair.

—

O Lord of the Throne—
did they ask too much,
when all they wanted was sincerity?
Was wisdom too great a thing?
Or inner transformation in a guide's hands
too heavy a burden?

Many preach the death of the ego
while themselves have become
princes of name and endless praise.
They teach detachment, yet quarrel for power.
They speak of poverty before God,
yet count their wealth, their rank, their reward.
They grow their hair long,
daily growing their disciples.

Words pour abundantly from their mouths.
Light is scarce.
They sell the wares of selflessness,
sing songs drowned in ecstasy,
sleep with bellies full.

Wounded souls come searching for a cure.
The hospitals of the soul overflow.
The sick wait for treatment,
but neither skilled physician
nor healing medicine is found.
Those who promised the cure
are themselves the patients—
yet they perform the masquerade
of the perfect healer.

Blessings are sold for the applause of qawwali.
Promises of salvation pass as counterfeit coins.
Before showing anyone through the night,
their first question is:
What will you give?

—

The flock dwindles. The wasteland spreads.
The noise grows. Truth grows dim.
How many mistook a sharp tongue for wisdom?
How many lost the path to fervor and flattery?

Reverence for the guide was taught,
yet the guide himself had forgotten the road,
and never once pointed toward the One
toward whom all guides can only gesture.

O Lord of the Throne—
bear witness to those who returned wounded,
bear witness to hearts that crumbled, never quenched,
bear witness to the seekers who turned back to You alone
and instead of being filled went hungry.

Tell the shepherds: the trust still burns.

Every soul cast into heedlessness,
every broken trust,
every seeker led astray,
every truth concealed for profit—
beyond their sight,
it is recorded.

The Most High is not deceived by cloak and chain.
The shepherd who abandons those entrusted to him
becomes a prisoner of the very darkness
he swore to dispel—
he wanders, ruined, extinguished
at the center of his own light.

—

But the greatest deception
is not the lie we tell the world—
it is the lullaby we sing to ourselves:

I cannot be deceived.

The ego is a subtle thing;
it believes so easily.
It does not always wear a crown—
sometimes it kneels in practiced humility
and waits in silence
for the sacrifice it does not declare
to be praised.

Wrestling with oneself is no public affair,
no flag waved in the streets,
no signed agreement—
it is the quiet labor of growth without announcement.
Growing smaller, away from every witness,
every wall of desire for a name.

The deepest freedom leaves no monument,
demands no record, wins no argument,
and seeks no seat among the honored—
like a river that, upon reaching the vast ocean,
loses its memory without grief,
and mourns not what it has left behind.

—MyKoul