Return To Nāsūt Poem by Mystic Qalandar

Hours slip by—
I remain prostrate at the threshold of wonder,
as if He stood before me:
He who dwells in earth and sky
yet outstrips space and placelessness.

My heart becomes a cradle of His remembrance;
each heartbeat testifies
that His awe has split my chest,
and in the center of my being
He has pitched His tent.

I was captive to silence—
and remain so—
but within that silence a voice now speaks:

If only That beyond reason and measure
would, like a familiar human,
lay a tender hand upon my chest,
call me by my name,
and pour upon me the mercy I have hoarded
for His manifestations in every atom of the world.

I read everything as an address of that nameless Name—
and I kiss it.
These outwardly voiceless things are, in truth, speaking to me
in the garment of the Ever-Living, the Self-Subsisting.

When attributes multiply and reason loses its way,
my heart bears witness:
here I do not exist at all.
Only He, in the mirror of His self-disclosures,
is both witness and witnessed.

From behind the veils of the Unseen of the Unseen
a bewitching whisper calls:

'Come!
that I may shatter this dream of self-forgetting
and awaken your true soul.
This 'I and you, ' this 'mine and yours'—
all are mist, a veil, a forgetting.
Know this: your township is a mirage without Me.
This contingent being borrows the garment of the Necessary;
else, in mere clay, where would come
the power to hear, to see, to speak? '

Rise!
and in this rapt gathering
let 'I am the Truth'
be the silent breath of your existence—
for besides the Truth, nothing is.

Turning back toward Nāsūt, I fall into prostration—
but now there is no wonder, no pleading, no distance.
The prostration itself is that voice, that hand, that Name, that rain.

I—not I;
I am only an echo of that Name,
the Name in everything and beyond everything.

—MyKoul