The Divine Artisan Poem by Basit Wani

The Divine Artisan

When morning lifts,
bathed in the awe of first light,
and night descends,
draped in wonder—
the universe unfolds,
a silent gesture of grace
spoken through form and fire.

In the hush before time,
love was already enduring—
resting beneath celestial thresholds,
where stars are placed
with intention.

The Divine
moves beside Her beloved creation,
not above,
but within.
She sculpts with breath and shadow,
moulds from clay and longing.
In man, She hides Herself,
awaiting the glance
that sees through the veil.

She stirs the heart
until it trembles with ache,
then brings the hush
that soothes the storm.
She shelters
those who crumble under sorrow.

Here,
lovers bow before love's altar.
Poets climb ladders of metaphor.
Mystics listen
for the music buried in silence.

Her sanctuaries are grown,
not built—
leaf and vine spiraling along stone.
The world is Her canvas,
and Her joy spills into all things.
Even absence
is painted with Her longing.

Blossoms sway on Her breath,
fruits glow with echoes of starlight.
She weaves the seen and unseen,
stitching light
into the seams of our days—
revealing,
then hiding,
then revealing again.

From Her own being,
She shaped a reflection:
a body carved from desire,
a spirit cradled in dust.

Moons lean toward Her.
Suns burn
with borrowed fire.
All creation turns
to the mystery
it cannot name,
but deeply remembers.

MyKoul