The Awakening Of Colours Poem by Mystic Qalandar

Colours give life its form—
not merely pigment
scattered upon a dying world,
but the first appearance
of Absolute Reality:
the singular One
revealing itself.

Before redness,
a silence.
Before blueness,
a depth without form.
Before gold,
a hidden flame
no eye has seen.

Light
sifts through the lattice of time
and falls—
and what was invisible
becomes spectrum,
symbol,
a sacred glimmer.

Each colour is a word—
a silent voice
embodied in matter.

October leaves
applaud the light—
each leaf
a small burning scripture;
amber, rust,
and red-gold hands
clapping
in prayerful surrender.

They do not cling
to the branch of growth.

They know the inner law:
to descend
is to be sown;
to be sown
is not to vanish,
but to be reshaped
into another form.

In their falling,
gravity becomes prayer;
in their rotting,
an alchemy;
and in their silence,
the seed
remembers the Name.

I stand among them—
a momentary witness,
dust of stars
and a knot of memories,
knowing
that I too must pass
through the changing colours
of my own becoming.

This is the ache—
to be here
and not here;
to belong to time
and long for placelessness;
to be a wave
and cling to the ocean.

Yet even this longing
is only a veil.

Behind it,
the essence of being
waits without waiting,
loves without need,
holds without grasping.

In hope of eternal spring,
the soul enters
the dark night of winter—
the cave of the heart,
the tomb of the seed,
the silence between breaths
where "I am"
has not yet echoed.

Winter is not death—
it is the hidden face of growth,
the blank page
before the command of creation,
the womb of the unborn,
the stillness
from which possibilities arise.

In the marrow of things,
the preparation for spring
is the quiet beginning
of resurrection.

In the frozen earth,
reason and spirit dream.
The atom dreams of the rose.
Multiplicity
remembers unity,
and unity
dreams again
through multiplicity.

What was scattered
gathers.

What was buried
rises.

What was colour
returns as light.

Thus colours
give life its form,
dissolve into light,
wait in darkness,
and rise again—

always the same,
always new:

a circle
whose centre is everywhere,
whose circumference is nowhere,
and whose name
is

Now.

— MyKoul