On Wings Free Of Fatigue Poem by Mystic Qalandar

Those eyes—
whispering, luminous lanterns
kindled before the first dawn—
keep them steadfast in flight.
Let no eyelid flutter
upon this sacred path.
This gaze is pilgrimage,
the pupil a shrine
where light comes to worship.

Look down from the mountain's lip:
that valley stitched in green,
so small and distant,
like a forgotten life,
or an old dream
the earth once dreamed of itself.
Do not mistake it for home.

Spread your wings.
Rip open the breast of the wind—
become a sword
that cleaves the heavenly currents,
tears the veil
between yesterday, vanished,
and that which has not yet
received a name.

Touch the saffron edge of sky.
Kiss the air
where it burns into silver,
where every sound dissolves
into the single word of silence.

Cast off the weight of earth,
those little stones of attachment—
names, dates, the gravity
of human decrees.
None was ever yours.
They were only lent to your shadow.

In that subtle moment
between two breaths,
do not seek rest.
That interval is no resting place;
it is a door flung wide
to the fullness of the present.
Beyond it, the Unspoken abides
without waiting,
and time is but a fading whisper
before the Eternal.

Now gently open
those fatigue-free eyes:
flint and water,
spark and surrender,
held together.
Let them cradle this holy paradox
as a bow cradles its arrow—
a living tension
released at last as melody.

Within this timeless vastness,
a silence descends like rain,
falling not from the sky
but from within the heavens,
sinking not into the earth
but into the earth's remembrance.
The sleeping soul awakens,
not like a bird escaping its cage,
but like light issuing from a star,
becoming the perfect reflection
of its own Origin.

The world slips away behind it
like a forgotten shadow
and does not call it back.
For whatever calls from below
is only the echo of a name
from which you have long since risen—
weightless, fearless, free.

─MyKoul