If Tomorrow The Veil Descended Poem by Mystic Qalandar

If tomorrow we awoke
in the abyss of pure oblivion—
no scrolls of scripture, no veils of number,
no tongues to name celestial fire—
only the quiet rise and fall of breath
and the soul's unspoken awe—

What primordial echo would stir first?
Would flame still dance as wrath divine
when it scorches the skin with its hidden tongue?
Would the vault of heaven shimmer in blue silence,
unclothed of every syllable?

Aye—
stone would yield to its downward song,
dust loosening under weight;
waters would wind their endless pilgrimage,
cool on the palm, slipping through grasping fingers;
and seeking hands
would trace the world's hidden script anew.

In patient unfolding,
we would recover the tongue of the Real:
how light bends along unseen edges,
how seeds hold forests in their quiet cores,
how unseen threads move through bone and breath,
ceaseless in their weaving within us.

Yet tell me—
in that boundless unmaking,
when no hymn endures
and no sacred name remains—
would the Void fall silent?

Or would one wanderer, in some nameless shade,
rest beneath a tree without memory
and feel it—
a nearness without form,
a warmth behind the ribs—
something present before all thought:

Thou art the hidden poise of things,
neither pressing nor withdrawing,
but gathering the scattered into wholeness—
a stillness without edge,
where being drinks from its own quiet center,
and the gaze turns inward,
not to grasp,
but to remember without words.

No scripture would return in ink,
no tale retrace its vanished arc—
yet thirst would rise unbidden,
like dawn seeping through closed eyes,
as understanding gathers in silence,
and stars, rivers, and drifting ash
find again their unseen center.

A child would ask into the hush:
"What mystery am I, adrift in this dream? "
And a heart would break—
not into ruin, but into light—
each shard catching a glimpse of the Eternal,
each fracture bending toward wholeness,
as if something within all things
refuses to remain divided.

And through that seeking—
that arrow cast beyond sight—
something older than memory
would breathe without sound,
restoring what was never lost
in a single, unforced turning.

Not written.
Not proven.
But known—
deep in the quiet of the chest.

Thus the world would begin again in two currents:
Outward—
through change, through touch, through trial,
the slow unveiling of form and pattern.
Inward—
through wonder, through silence, through depth,
the soul's wordless knowing,
where what is found within
gently restores the whole.

And when these streams meet once more,
it would be seen:
Nothing had ever been forsaken.
For the True returns through the seeking heart,
and the Infinite was never diminished—
only waiting,
holding all things
in a quiet, enduring poise.

MyKoul