Seed Testament Poem by Mystic Qalandar

I wish to be buried
as a seed fallen from
timeless branches—
cradled in the womb of
winter's stillness,
cold in its hushed absence
yet luminous at the core,
kept by that sacred alchemy,
the slow, invisible breath
that never ceases—
so I may rise anew,
unfolding my smile
on the holy breath of Spring.

I do not crave death,
but a subtle immortality,
wrought by eyes that
inscribe my name
upon the enduring parchment
of wintered artistry—
a trace unbound
by time's frail clasp.

In this quiet drama,
I have come to adore winter
as much as spring,
longing to become the root
that anchors the eternal Tree,
its veins drinking unseen waters
beneath the soil
of endless life.

Yet when the question
stirs my breath—
"Whose seed are you? "—
my tongue falters:
a confession and a mystery.
For in the seed's dark womb
sleep countless trees,
destined to awaken—
an unbroken lineage
of revealing echoes,
each heart a pulsation of Hu,
the sacred sound humming
through the labyrinth of creation—
unpredictable love
whispering not to another
but to the Self:
I am.

The life within the seed
tugs gently at its secret threads,
weaving a melody of longing—
sonnets offered to
the inebriated eyes of stars.

And I remember:
my soul thirsts to be filled
with ravenous inspiration,
to unveil the essential clarity
beneath all veils.

So I seek the sacred spark
that keeps soul and mind ablaze
in their eternal turning.

In this life, I choose
to be one with
the Artist of infinite love,
transcending the claim—
the Artist is not mine.

December 7,2025