Morning Song Poem by Mystic Qalandar

Like breath drawn from no mouth, slowly undulating—
hidden signs cool and keen as remembrance.
The sky, a domed cup of dissolving blue,
holds morning the way water holds light:
it cannot say how.

By the lingering echo of vanished stars
and the red-white moon leaning into erasure,
the world tilts toward something unnamed.
Men and women drift through the thinning veil,
not yet knowing they are being called.

Solitude—a votive broken open—
gleams from within its own hollow.
There, before thought,
the first songs are remembered rather than born.

A soliloquy rises like incense from no source;
the voice of centuries breathes itself into now.
In silent pools, hidden rivers speak
only to those who have forgotten how to listen—
and in forgetting, finally hear.

Lost upon shadow-roads of memory and dream,
we pass through the fissure in time's silk—
not by crossing, but by ceasing to resist.
Beyond sight, where thought grows thin,
we move through dark and labyrinthine passages—
and find the walls were never there.

Breath becomes the key. Every silence
an act of worship so complete
it needs no worshipper.

Morning does not open. It was never closed.
What seemed enchanted shadow was our own dreaming.
Hearts bear the marks of ancient wounds—
yes. And the marks themselves are light.
Every sorrow a sacred inscription;
every scar a doorway
the self forgot it had passed through.

Grace requires no clean ground.
Wherever we stand, the ground is already holy—
already given, already home.

In the first stillness—
a bell that was never struck—
the song of being
sings itself
in you.

—MyKoul