Silent Gnosis Of Truth Poem by Mystic Qalandar

Wings have grown to consciousness —
not like a bond, not like a clasp of light
suddenly placed into the hand
though never learned before.

Lift. Flight. The stirring of wings.
Every motion estranged from its owner.
Still, I rise within this familiar darkness
whose pattern habit and breath
had already drawn.

He is not like one who knows,
but becomes like that which moves.
Longing takes a form —
a shape that appears
only after existence.

The flutter of wings becomes a direction —
a decision of repetition, beyond intention.
This fluency of flight
turns into a question
that has forgotten how to speak.

Something in the chest contracts,
then slowly opens.
No pain in the muscles,
yet the body remembers this pressure —
a muted season behind the ribs
turning inward.

No 'I' gathers its boundaries.
Only a motion
that, in the absence of light,
is learning itself —
as if darkness were teaching hands
how to vanish.

And in that learning, something loosens.
Beneath the body, the false self melts —
a knot
that has begun to recognize
its own way of forgetting.

I am not freed, there is no breaking.
I slip gently out of bonds
like ice shedding its structure,
without protest.

The heart strikes its cage like a bell —
felt in teeth, breath, bones —
each vibration opening something
with no name in the world.

What I was begins to flow —
centerless, undenied,
like smoke that remembers
it was never solid.

Even identity forgets its haste —
even the bell forgets
the metal it was made from.

At the rim of the skull,
the mind knocks —
a silent insistence,
like rain drifting from thought.
A wave that refuses imprisonment.

Each heartbeat becomes a code in the air,
but the air agrees to no meaning.
Meanings dissolve into signals —
and then signals into something
that cannot be traced.

Thought unfolds itself,
slowly, very gently,
in the breath of stars —
a vast breath
with no source.

And beneath it:
a silent structure without language,
a mode of building
remembered through forgetting.

At the border of knowing,
knowing sheds its disguise
and becomes pure hearing.
And hearing, a window.

What remains
is motion made —
dust of bones
from memory, light, experience —
taking shape through
that same unseen window
owned by no one.

No thing. No story.
No thought that someone is watching.
Only a silent structure
opening — temporary,
like a sketch
the universe both erases and draws.

The world is no longer visible.
It has become a mere trace —
and the trace seems
like something happening,
not something grasped.

I pass through the impulse to name,
not once but continuously —
passing through doors
that were never built.

No veil is lifted;
each falls inward —
contracting into a transparency,
like paper dissolving in water
of which it was always a part.

At the last threshold,
the name and the namer meet —
not in union,
but in the recognition
that meeting is no longer needed.

A semi-transparent silence remains
where distinction
forgets even the notion of being separate.

The center opens.
Not because it wills it —
but because nothing is left to hold.

Even those wings
that bore this motion —
in the midst of space,
in the midst of thought,
in the midst of need —
dissolve.

Gravity forgets its direction.
It does not break —
it simply stops insisting.

Questions die out like comets
for whose justification
no sky remains.

Silence gapes open —
not as void,
but as a vast plain
that has forgotten its edges.

Wings dissolve into air —
their warmth still felt
in the moving wind.
The wind turns into praise,
but praise forgets
that it is sacred.

Even exaltation is forgotten
in the rhythm that remains —
a rhythm without direction,
neither rising nor falling,
for rising and falling
were born from it.

This is not escape. Not arrival.
Not transformation.
Only a remembrance —
and this remembering is
no person's act.

Al-Haqq appears —
the sole truth
that knows itself;
all else is image, shadow-play,
a pleasing deception:
color, letter, trace —
the game of annihilation.

The sky was never above.
It lay folded within this chest,
like something breathing itself open
through every moment.

Patient as a seed
that never ceased becoming,
needing no justification of soil
for its growth.

And what I thought was 'true self' —
only a passing margin
written on a page
the page itself keeps erasing.

No reader. No one in need.
And yet — it writes itself,
as if silence had learned
how to move.

Transcendent Reality returns unveiled,
and says softly:

'Here, take this garment too.
But remember — all these are veils:
a glitter, a colour, a story
never part of the Truth.

Now watch my dance — in that void
where the watcher no longer remains.'

— MyKoul