Love Turned Nnot Silent Poem by Mystic Qalandar

Of all the instincts I have cherished—
those ancient arrows lodged within the rib—
love is the one I treasured most.

Not love as sentiment,
but as ontological gravity:
the force that bends the soul
toward its source.

It comes like spring
upon the frozen lake of self,
thawing the coldest chambers
where I had stored my solitude,
turning them warm.
The ice, in breaking, speaks.

As above, so below:
the microcosm trembles
when the macrocosm breathes.

It makes me whole—
I know this as surely
as the atom knows its nucleus,
as the orbit knows its centre.

Yet every seed of love
keeps growing,
splitting the soil of my complacency,
demanding more
than I can hold.

I grasp its boughs,
delighting in their green beauty
and ripening fruit,
as though to make myself whole again—
as though wholeness were a destination
rather than an endless becoming.

The Beloved is the mirror;
the lover, His image
remembering its former purity.

—MyKoul