The Battle Of The Sel Poem by Mystic Qalandar

The Battle of the Self and the Soul

Darkness upon darkness,
layer upon layer deep—
The shadow of silence,
yet the restlessness of the self.
Each breath entangled,
a storm of voices rose within.

Poisoned arrows of thought,
wrapped in fleeting thrill,
swallowed the golden rays of peace,
dissolving them in venom
with every trembling breath.

The heart pounded—thud, thud—
like a prisoner
striking the bars with fading strength.

Every worry—a dagger of stone,
every regret—a mountain of burden.
Half-alive,
in a desolate chamber of night,
I lay with frightened breaths.

The soul, restless—
as if on the bridge of union
while unseen hands
wrenched it from the body.
Peace—a serpent of smoke,
scattered into fragments
by the harsh winds of false solace.

Now, only war—
self against soul,
the clashing of swords.
The night crept on,
I remained awake,
waiting for the first light of dawn,
but the inner storm
barred all paths to sleep.

Then—
the veils of darkness tore apart;
the light of Muhammad
descended into my heart.
The cages of venomous serpents
shattered to dust.
A rain of tranquility poured;
my heartbeat struck the melody of life—
like a prisoner
seeing the morning's eye for the first time.

Worries—turned to earthen lamps,
regrets—scattered beads of a broken rosary.
I bowed in prostration
at the feet of that light,
where rivers of mercy flow unceasing.

The soul reached its destination,
like a traveler of longing
resting his forehead
at the door of the Sacred Sanctuary.
Peace descended like dew—
true as the Lord's own promise.

Now, only remembrance remains,
the self subdued,
set in the crown of the soul.
The night's cloak folded away;
I rose to welcome the dawn.

This inner sun
will keep me luminous every moment.
When the Hand of Power called out,
I burned the jungle within me—
and from the ashes of the self,
the golden garden of peace bloomed.