Immortal Hands Poem by Mystic Qalandar

Lifted—lifted high, too high to fall—
upon unseen pedestals I stand,
upheld by living Light,
shining as though I bore
the Sun's own flame.

These hands that cradle me
have rocked my being beyond time,
the very hands that first formed me
from nothing into now.
They have held my foundation firm—
that it crumble not,
that it tumble not.

Yet when I wander
from the Sun of Immortality,
mistaking shadows for my way,
I meet the earth—
not cast aside, but turned
inward, where the quiet summons
has always risen.

There I have known
the truest love:
a joy that draws me
from the primal void,
where betrayal waits
with its sharpened blade.
Before I can shatter,
these same hands receive my own,
steadying my trembling grasp
upon the rope of Immortality.

This is the grace that matters:
a silent awakening
within heart and mind,
where timeless mercy
has always dwelt.

Then I see:
The hands of others
cannot truly touch me.
The words of those
who cannot behold this truth
cannot wound what I am.
For there are no others—
only the One Reality,
transcendent and eternal,
whose hands alone
have always held me.

Yet these hands
do not keep me blind.
Freedom is their gift,
and I choose to abide
within the grace
of absolute unity—
unfed by the dream
of separation and duality,
but nourished instead
by the Water of Life
flowing endlessly
from the hands
of Immortality.

—MyKoul