The Book Of Love Poem by Mystic Qalandar

Before the veils of names,
a fallen memory saw a light
untouched by fever—
neither born nor kindled,
a jewel always awake.
Silent as breath held between stars,
it stands deathless, without decline.

In night's mysterious workshop of being,
it gathers itself,
dressing exile in the robe of meaning
until absence becomes
the mirror of existence—
a game played by the shadow of the One.
We wake within the compass of its heart.

Each dawn—
a turning of that unwritten page.
This is not birth,
but a light call of the soul's return.
Each night—
the ecstatic vastness of margins
where forms dissolve
into the ocean's silence.

No ink has fallen on the tablet,
yet everything appears
within the sacred breath of the holy.
Inside this temporary spire of the moment
that negates its own construction,
time does not move forward—
it folds inward.
The ink of eternity seeps into this page
never empty,
but brimming with the truth of the Real.

We call it 'story' to cage its boundlessness;
we name it 'love' when it shatters
the shell of the self,
unveiling us again and again
into that indivisible where no crack exists.

Hands—weak tools of our becoming—
reach out to hold;
but it is the 'hold' that seizes them
in that eternal covenant of lover and beloved.
Every loss is a recitation of this hidden verse;
every return erases the veil of two-ness,
until no scribe remains,
no final inscription—
only an everlasting radiance,
the expression of what was never two.

And still we search for traces—
not for any ending, but to reclaim
that primal remembrance,
that eternal flame burning
in the chamber of the heart.

MyKoul