The Cyclical Dance Of Lāhūt Poem by Mystic Qalandar

9O Seeker of Truth, you ask—
why time turns in ceaseless spirals,
an endless dance, a restless breath
within the gyre of becoming.

Listen—this is the hidden law of the Divine:
Day and night—twin hosts of the Real,
veiled in radiant illusion—
are set in motion through the loom of being,
that you may pierce
the dream of forms.

For nothing endures
but the Self-Subsisting Essence,
the Ever-Living—
without beginning, without end;
immanent in every atom,
filling even the void
with unseen fullness.

O Seeker—
Pharaoh once thundered:
"Is not Egypt mine?
Do not these rivers flow beneath my throne? "
Then came the decree of Truth—
those very waters rose against him,
and swallowed him
into their depths.

Had you seen
the radiant Gabriel
sealing his lips with dust—
those eyes, once softened by milk—
you would know
how pride is undone
by a single breath of the Divine.

And Nimrod proclaimed:
"I give life, and I bring death."

Yet a gnat—
a humble servant of the Real—
entered his skull by decree,
unraveling the illusion of his crown.

That head, once bowed to in reverence,
now longed
for the strike of sandals.

All are signs—
unveiling the One:
each fleeting form
a mirror of the Face
beyond all mirrors.

Behold another turning—
The Prophet's Light
slips into the womb of shadow;
the blades of enemies rise
to veil eternity—
yet that Light ascends, unconquered,
until Mecca itself bows
before its flame.

Such is the turning of the Real:
darkness dissolving
in the heart of light.

And behold Bilal—
stretched upon burning sands,
the self aflame
in the crucible of trial.

Did not the heart whisper,
"This pain will never end"?
Yet dawn broke at Badr—
that same voice rising
above shattered tyranny.

Such is Divine wisdom:
the oppressed are raised
above their oppressors.

These are the revolutions of destiny:
The body's strength—
the dimming of the soul.

Worldly abundance—
inward poverty.

Earthly laughter—
eternal reckoning.

So the mighty do not harden in pride,
nor the weak dissolve in despair;
so the wealthy are not lost in illusion,
nor the poor consumed by hopelessness.

From the silent trembling before time,
He releases the arrows of decree—
each striking
its destined mark—
until the soul,
polished to a mirror,
is drawn
into the timeless embrace
of annihilation.

Thus—
in every state,
cling to the Archer alone.

Herein lies
true honor,
and perfect refuge.
And upon your storm-tossed heart
there descends—
an everlasting peace.

MyKoul