The Blessed Olive Tree Poem by Mystic Qalandar

If the sun drew near,
all would flare and burn—
yet every green tree keeps its vigil,
waits its turn,
a prayer in leaf and root,
where parched earth
turns sorrow into fruit.
The mountains rise
like minarets, grave and tall,
to show how far a single being
may not fall—
teaching the burning heart
its patient art:
to hold the blaze
and not betray the heart.

The One breathes
through desert, plain, and wave,
through mountain-brow
and forest's breathing cave,
veiled within the things we see—
a secret light in mystery.
The olive holds that Noor,
glowing and bright,
a blessed tree recalling eternal Light.
It stands between the zenith and the deep,
and never lets its inward glory sleep.

Tree into olive, olive into oil,
oil into lamp,
and lamp to glory's coil—
light upon light,
and light again on light,
till sight itself grows—
transparent in the sight.
Its oil burns nearly
without a flame's command,
as if the hidden secret
were close at hand.
No east nor west
can circumscribe that blaze;
it breaks the moulds
by which our thought appraises.

A blessed tree draws
heaven down to earth
and turns their meeting
to revelation—
the hidden secret
of the Unity of Being.
It drinks the dark
and yields back gold refined,
the body's branch made
luminous with mind.
The lamp is wakefulness,
the flame is sight,
the gift of seeing
through the eye of Light.

No final rupture severs
source from sign;
one vein of life
runs through the flesh and vine.
So let the world be read
as holy writ:
each bark a verse,
each leaf a spirit-lit mihrab.
The soul's true nourishment
is not by force,
but by the sweet grace
of the Source.
The oil awaits not making,
but release—
the veil dissolves
as inner sight increases.
And in that opening,
without sound or word,
we are the light upon light.

—MyKoul