Sacred Truth: A Meditation Poem by Mystic Qalandar

We, believers in transcendent unity,
know the Transcendent stands
behind and before the walls
of the immanent world.
We are messengers
of that nameless Light
which tongues call Truth,
yet no name can encompass
its circumference.

Our eyes do not trace paths—
for paths belong to those
who see traveler and destination as separate.
We turn toward that horizon
hidden behind every direction,
and every direction draws its being from it.

Our feet do not walk on trails;
we pursue signs not yet born,
and follow voices
that breathe within silence's womb.

We pass through crowds untouched,
as dreams pass through walls.
People see us,
yet our reality does not enter their gaze,
for we travel more in our shadows
than in our forms.

Our vision is keener than a sword's edge—
not piercing the masks of faces,
but unveiling the dreams
that gave birth to the masks.

We reject the eye of falsehood,
for our sight is shaped not by light,
but by that darkness
which gave light its being.

Earth's body clings to our steps,
as if the soil wishes to remind us of its name.
This pull is both obstacle and mystery:
the more the earth draws us toward itself,
the more intensely the sky
awakens in our memory.

And certainly sky is no place,
but an ancient remembrance,
forever calling the soul
back to its origin.

The longer we remain bound to earthly things,
the fainter the echo of eternity becomes.
The clamor of markets clings to us
like centuries of dust on a mirror,
until the mirror forgets even its own beholder.

Then we return to our solitude—
that solitude where silence
ceases to be mere silence
and becomes a door.

We lift our gaze toward the higher realm,
and come to know
that the higher realm—
is not located in any direction.
It is not above us, nor within us—
it is where above and within—
lose their meaning.

We take refuge in the vastness of stillness
and conceive of that which transcends conception.

Clouds receive us and rain for us.
Stars burn for us—
or perhaps we burn within their dreaming.

The moon bears witness to our solitude,
yet even its testimony is incomplete,
for every light carries
the memory of some deeper darkness.

Before us stands the boundary of the Unseen.
Yet the closer we draw to it,
the more it seems no boundary at all—
but a gaze that has watched us from eternity:
in its perfect knowing, unknowable;
in its perfect manifestation, concealed;
in its perfect nearness, far.

And perhaps this is its recognition.

We belong to the heavens,
yet rule without throne—
for sovereignty is born not of place,
but of gnosis.

We seek that which cannot be found.
We pursue that which cannot be attained.
We circle that which has no center,
and move toward that
which is nowhere and everywhere.

Then comes a moment
when we suspect
that seeker, seeking, and sought—
these were never three.

Perhaps from the very beginning
they were but veils of a single mystery.

Then we know
we never began the journey,
nor were we ever far from the destination.

Yet we do not stop—
for love's work is not arrival,
but to burn perpetually.

Our greatest comfort is this:
that our heart holds no doubt,
save that doubt
which deepens every certainty.

No hand taught us our way—
only love did,
which is older than all books
and was written before all heavens.

Yet none among us fully knows this mystery.
And perhaps never will—
for it is our nature
to dig for that which cannot be excavated,
to name that which cannot be named,
and to journey toward that
which expands with every step.

We are here but for a season.
When the time comes,
we shall depart without erasure,
beyond the world.
And when the earth searches
for a shroud for us,
it shall find nothing—
for our origin precedes clay.

We are travelers of the sacred mystery,
and our shrouds are woven from threads
spun before existence itself.

For that which transcends
both being and non-being,
no shroud can cover.

MyKoul