In The Beginning Poem by Mystic Qalandar

When the Hidden of the Hidden,
inclined toward self-revelation,
desiring to behold the treasures
of His own unknowable Essence—

was it in some fathomless moment
that Time first stirred in the womb of Eternity,
or does that moment breathe still,
unborn and undying,
a pulse without beginning,
a rhythm without end?

He inscribes His secrets
upon the tablet of His own Name—
and the Name is the first veil,
the last threshold.

A single spark leaps forth
from the dark brilliance of the Absolute—
not from within, nor without,
but from the No-Thing
that cradles all things.

It is a constellation of possibilities,
a geometry of the unmanifest,
a circle that is not a circle,
a point that contains all points:

not white, not black,
not red, not green—
not any color that eye has seen,
nor any color that eye can dream—
but the seed of all color,
the silence before sound,
the light before light.

Then Be resounds—
not as word, not as thought,
but as the primordial hum
that sets the formless to dreaming form.

And the colorless yields
its infinite robes,
each hue a Name,
each shade a world,
each tint a path
back to the colorless.

Deep within that first spark,
a river awakens—
not water, but the memory of water,
not fragrance, but the longing for fragrance—
flowing through the chambers of the possible,
spreading through the mansions of the manifest,
yet never leaving its source,
never parting from the radiance
that is its origin and its end.

This is the Hidden in the manifest,
the manifest in the Hidden,
the Infinite wrapped in finitude,
the Eternal draped in time.

The current courses
through the prism of all worlds—
above, below, within, beyond—
yet remains untouched,
untouchable,
a bride and bridegroom
in eternal embrace.

It cannot be known
through the gates of the senses,
nor grasped by the mind's reaching,
nor named by the tongue's stammering.
It can only be tasted
in the silence between thoughts,
in the pause between breaths,
in the wound that is also the healing.

Then, beneath the gaze
of the Eye that sees itself seeing,
a point of intensity awakens—
the pupil of the cosmos,
the center that is everywhere,
the circumference that is nowhere.

And beyond that point—
all is dark with too much light,
all is silent with too much sound.
The intellect breaks like a wave
upon that shore,
and the soul drowns
to find itself breathing.

This is called awakening:
not the discovery of something new,
but the remembrance
of what was never lost—
the first command echoing
through the corridors of creation,
the Be that still is.

The awakened are scattered
like stars in the vastness—
not separate, but distinct,
not divided, but unique,
each a window
through which the Infinite gazes
upon the Infinite.

Their radiance touches
yet cannot be held,
their presence is felt
yet cannot be contained.
They are the Light's confession,
the Absolute's whisper
in the ear of the relative.

The Uncreated Light descends
not as descent, but as recognition—
the heart becomes a sanctuary
for the glory that has always dwelt there,
a temple built of praise
for the Praised who needs no temple.

There, in the innermost chamber,
the Light plants a seed—
a seed that is not a seed,
a silence that is not silence,
a secret that is not secret.

And this seed unfolds
into a forest without end—
each tree a world,
each leaf a lifetime,
each root a return
to the seed that never ceases seeding.

And here is the mystery
that the mystics guard
with their very breath:

The seed is the sower,
the sower is the soil,
the soil is the forest,
and the forest is the seed.

The abundance pours forth—
not as excess, but as essence,
not as many, but as the One
playing at multiplicity,
the Absolute dreaming itself
into relative forms.

Every blossom
still bears the fragrance
of the unmanifest,
every branch
still remembers
the silence of the root,
every leaf
still trembles
with the first spark's
unutterable longing.

And in the heart of the forest,
where the trees grow thickest
and the light filters through
like honey through a sieve,
there stands a single tree—

its roots in the No-Thing,
its trunk the cosmos,
its branches the orders of creation,
its fruit the awakened ones.

And on that tree,
a single leaf
turns in the eternal wind,
and on that leaf,
a single dewdrop
contains the entire ocean
of the Uncreated Light.

That dewdrop is you.
That ocean is you.
The tree is you.
The seed is you.
The sower is you.

And the awakening is simply
remembering
what you have always been
in the Beginning that never began,
in the End that will never end,
in the Now that is
the only portal
to the Eternal.

The awakened know:
The journey is the destination,
the seeker is the sought,
and the beginning is
the eternal homecoming.

—MyKoul