My Breath Poem by Mystic Qalandar

My breath—neither first nor last—
refuses to be severed from my body.
No sacrificial blade can cleave its throat.
No liturgy of ruin can barter it away.
It passes through every silence like a hidden river—
unseen, perennial, keeper of names.

Not to be offered at altars for salvation,
nor flogged into pardon by a penitent hand.
Not bound for gallows to atone for the sins of others.
Not dragged like a limp animal across the bridge of reckoning—
it refuses the dark.

It is the last living law,
the hushed arithmetic that measures the world through breath.
Drink it from the oldest spring beneath the mountain's memory.
Let it cut the air open. Let it tear through night—
bone-splintering light, arriving slowly.

Listen: it answers in every inhale and exhale,
a secret bell behind the ribs,
a tally etched into the grain of skin,
in the fissures of shadow and light,
on brittle moments that once mistook noise for peace.

My breath is gentle—a pendulum of dusk and knowing—
swinging through rooms where ghosts store their weights.

It drags them into the clarity of a single edge,
tears names like salt from the walls of my throat,
turns confession into currency that no longer spends.

It does not flee.
It transmutes, changes its garments,
steps through the scaffold of form into another face.

Let the world witness:
it does not die into smallness.
It carves itself into morning, opens a new ledger in dawn,
while the old night—enormous, wounded—bleeds
its slow arithmetic into the margins of time.

MyKoul