The Crescent (The First Night's Moon) Poem by Mystic Qalandar

The crescent veils its face
Behind the fugitive drift of clouds—
As if eternity itself, in the storm's fierce eye,
Had paused for one suspended breath,
That a dream might yet be born.

From the deep wells of galaxies,
Light rains down like silver ash,
And the wind, across the velvet shroud of night,
Scatters invisible embers—
Stray sparks that no eye sees.

What seems forever lost
Is but hidden from our looking;
Soon the moon shall climb the sky once more—
Not as a conqueror crowned with triumph,
But as a living sign, a quiet witness:
That all things—sun and moon,
Star and wandering planet—
Move within their hallowed, unbroken spheres.

From the slender filament of the crescent's bow,
To the fourteenth night's perfect orb of light,
And from that radiant fullness back again
To the dwindling, delicate sickle—
She, without struggle or refusal,
Wears every shape that time can fashion,
Yet never, not for an instant,
Forsakes her innermost, undying flame.

Such is the journey of the soul's own knowing:
Through the circling dance
Of dissolution and remaking,
Through the slow seasons
Of forgetting and return,
A wholeness that cannot be divided
Stands ever firm and still—
A silent hermitage, a cloister of the heart,
Beneath each broken fragment of our recognition.

And when the crescent dawns upon the sky again,
Soft as a whispered syllable of truth,
It murmurs the same ageless lesson:
No true light ever perishes in darkness.
What recedes shall yet unfold;
What endures is not the vessel that contains,
But the radiance that passes through all vessels—
And in its passing, in its gentle transit,
Lifts each frail container into sanctity.

— MyKoul