Revelation: Not A Word, Not A Sound Poem by Mystic Qalandar

Not a single letter,
not a single sound—
and yet I was spoken to.

The voice did not reach my ears;
it descended into the secret chambers of the heart,
clothed in silence,
and took root there.

Then I saw—
far away, so far that no direction held sway:
no north, no south, no east, no west.

There was only a light,
like the first ray of eternity,
slowly entering the inner eye of being.

Time stood still,
and I knew that such light is never seen with eyes,
but with a heart awakened to itself.

Then I understood:
revelation needs no words.
It comes in the language before language,
and in its coming the self is lifted toward the Divine.

As though an ember from the first fire,
traveling since time began,
had descended into me.

As though a trust of light,
smouldering beneath the ashes of unnumbered ages,
had at last chosen this barren soil.

As though the Most Generous, the Most Merciful,
from endless compassion,
had entrusted my heart with a letter of light—
never spoken, only bestowed.

It lay beneath layers beyond speech,
where every name falls silent
before the nameless Real.

Snow veiled its face
like a white garment over hidden splendor,
and beneath that mercy an ancient Presence breathed,
patient beyond time.

We call it silence—
not because nothing speaks,
but because words have reached their end,
and language bows before the Reality
from which every sound is born
and to which every sound returns.

The Absolute, beside whom all things pass,
every form a shadow,
every being a borrowed radiance.

Snow spread its white garment over that hidden face,
as though the universe itself were veiling
its primordial mystery.

Yet this whiteness was no death, but mercy:
beneath its quiet folds light breathed without ceasing.

There, the eternal trust waited without waiting.
Patience dwelt there, while time remained at the threshold,
learning the meaning of annihilation.

Not the breath of the dead—
but the breath of permanence,
hidden in mortal veils,
until the seer discovers
that death dissolves forms, never Reality.

Snow melts, seasons pass, centuries vanish,
yet That remains.
It neither travels through time nor resists it;
time itself circles the Eternal.

Then, in a whisper,
while every faculty within me listened,
I knew—
not that the Sleepless One had awakened,
but that creation had begun to awaken
to the One who never sleeps.

When that unveiling is complete,
there will be neither light nor darkness,
neither vision nor revelation,
but certainty alone.

Then it shall be known
that earth and sky and all they contain
have always concealed the one secret
from which life is given.

The Transcendent does not hide;
only our seeing remains veiled.

So I lingered, small before that buried fire,
listening to the Reality that bears my deepest name,
until every lesser name fell away.

I heard the veiled Reality, and knew only this:
the Eternal is received by those
who have learned the sacred art
of listening with their whole being.

—MyKoul