The Book Of Life Poem by Mystic Qalandar

The Book of Life

The pages of life keep turning,
yet no final word is written.

Each page hides a half-seen secret,
waiting for light to reveal its face.

In the margins, quiet questions gather—
their answers opening into new mysteries.

The deep waters of life flow unseen,
their shores dissolving into boundless dream.

No beginning, no ending—
only the endless turning at the heart of things.

We drift within its current, a slow-vanishing tide,
with no place to hold, no way to return.

Sometimes we are the river's hidden pulse;
sometimes it moves through us, unasked.

Feet follow a path without name,
while the heart waits for a soundless call.

Where does this quiet summons arise?
Heard deep in the soul, beyond the mind's reach.

In breath, in dream, in the veil of sleep—
a whisper repeats: I am the truth.

Hands reach into the void, yet find a strange grace,
as if touching something once known and forgotten.

In the mist of time, shadows linger—
untouchable, as desire slowly fades.

Silence rises to the lips, then falls away;
no word can hold what seeks to be spoken.

Even in stillness, nothing is still—
time slips through like water from the hand.

And yet—
in the heart of seeking, a quiet joy appears,
a silence that feels like peace.

This is the way of mystery:
when revealed, it deepens into riddle;
when hidden, it shines through every crack.

So it carries these wandering questions onward,
while wordless songs continue—without end.

MyKoul