River Of Life Poem by Mystic Qalandar

From a secret spring it rises,
A pulse from stone's heart—
Yet never apart
from the ocean's breath.
What we call beginning
is but a crest in the eternal tide,
a turn within the infinite circle.

It winds through valleys hushed,
presses against patient mountains,
shaping stone with centuries of touch
till jagged edges sigh smooth again.

At times it thunders—
a chorus that shakes the gorge.
At times it hushes—
a mirror where the moon leans low,
silver stretched upon its skin,
guiding wanderers in quiet wonder.

Upon its back, vessels gather:
pilgrims heavy with prayer and promise,
dreamers with sails of longing—
all carried by one relentless tide.

It bears them past laughter-lit meadows,
through forests veiled in shadow,
by ruins where time lingers—
yet never does it pause.
Each vessel moves, willing or not,
toward the widening horizon of becoming.

And when the river meets the sea,
it does not end.
It spills into the boundless,
dissolving its name, its striving,
only to rise as mist,
to fall as rain,
to gather again as streams.

Sea to sky, sky to earth,
earth to sea—
a rhythm without first note or final silence,
a dance without beginning or close.

This is the current of Time:
Sacred, untiring, indivisible—
ever flowing, ever returning,
ever changing, yet ever the same.

—August 31,2025