Not Waiting For Life After Death Poem by Mystic Qalandar

I am not waiting for life after death—
not for recompense, nor its lack.
Let no oodh anoint the shroud,
let the pen make its entries in the ledger,
let Munkar and Nakir read the answers
to their roaring questions
from the book of my deeds,
written in my soul.

I am not waiting for life after death.
How long must I stay sealed
inside this terrible self—
a hollowed lamp, its wick
trembling with old blame,
a fire that names shadows
as though names could become absolution?

I am not waiting for life after death.
Not because I doubt the gate,
nor the scale that listens.
The world itself is a mirror,
its chilled silver returning me altered,
strange even to my own hand.

I am not waiting for life after death,
but for the readiness to step naked
into that light—to answer
without invention, without cloak.
To account for this life:
the prayers I kept hidden,
the kindnesses slipped like coins
beneath doors, the betrayals
I buried deep in silence.

I am learning the syntax of mercy,
the language that loosens accusation
from the bone. Until then,
I remain a student of evening,
counting my small departures,
cataloguing my dust—
not waiting, but apprenticed
to making this life true.

I am not waiting for life after death—
not for lack of belief,
but because I trust its coming
at the far edge of time.
The drama of resurrection
is already played in the chambers of this life,
where every act bears witness,
every loss is a rehearsal,
and every breath is a step
toward the final account.

—MyKoul