Singing Itself To Itself Through Eternity Poem by Mystic Qalandar

Who is this that sings within me—
so secretly
that even angels cannot steal near the sound?

I am awake in sleep,
asleep in wakefulness,
yet from nowhere rises
a lovely song,
flooding the hollows of my being.

It almost draws a smile—
the smile of an infant
resting beyond dream,
cradled in a mother's lap,
swaying in a nest of cloth,
untouched by memory,
untouched by desire.

No throat gives shape to this melody;
no breath carries it forth—
yet it is heard.

What is this voice
that sings only for me—
though no 'me' remains
to claim it?

Not an angel.
Not a houri of paradise.

For who could depart,
and where would one go?

I am not listening to heaven—
I am its listening.

I am not visited by angels—
I am the light
from which they arise.

I am not awaiting paradise—
I am the garden
before its gates were imagined.

Within me flow the four streams:
water, milk, honey, and wine—
wisdom, love, and ecstatic annihilation.

The song is not sung to me;
it is sung as me.

The singer is silence.
The melody is consciousness.

And when the listener fades,
only the song remains—

singing itself to itself
through eternity.

—MyKoul