The Air Is Fresh, Alive With Whispers— Poem by Mohammad Younus

The air is fresh, alive with whispers—
Heavy with the weight of melodies unsaid,
a music carved by silence,
where once clamor tread.

I call Your name, O Nameless—
Hu! Hu! Hu! —
carried beyond the bounds of sound,
a resonance vast,
not fading into hollows,
but echoing ripples of stillness.

Illusions lie hidden deep,
buried within my heart,
once dismissed—
as whispers of Satan,
drifting like shadows on the breeze.
How blind I was!
The illusions thrived within.

I searched the echoes of silence,
reaching the depths of my heart,
unwinding the dark mysteries—
that bound me to the tether.
The voices of Satan silenced,
the whispers thinned out,
leaving me with my true self.

My eyes unlocked,
no longer turning from the truth.
A fortress breached
by the grace of the Gracious.
I trace the steps of yesterday,
seeking a clue,
a ray ignited in my chest.

It whispers of my true essence.
Here I stand, utterly alone,
in the presence of the Eternal.
Moments replay—
every glance, every tone of the Lord.

In the divine silence,
louder than any mundane clamor,
I hear the question:
"Am I not your Lord? "
In softer tones, I respond:
"Yes, my Lord, You are—the Truth! "

I beg the silence to yield,
to break for the sake of the bond
I cannot sever—bound by the covenant.
So I wait, hoping You'll speak
in Your divine language,
knowing no sound, no word,
what can match this sacred communion?

And yet I wonder—
Is not the Eternal always speaking,
unveiling His mysteries in every still breath?

MyKoul