The Dwelling Of Light Poem by Mystic Qalandar

Light does not fall
from distant dying suns,
nor shimmer from ancestral dust.
It borrows nothing from the moon,
unconcerned with her meteor-streaked robes.

Light sleeps within your neurons.
It leaps into the heart and clings—
like a child starved for embrace.
Riding the silver wave of the soul,
it crosses the ordered sea of waking.

See: it sinks into the eye,
perches on rods and cones
like children laughing on swings,
tilting the visible toward boundless possibility.
Then, with practiced hand, it descends
into the deep mines of the mind—
the alchemist's workshop of imagination,
where raw copper is polished into gold.

There it flows
like an underground river bearing broken glass,
lifting the reflection of that inner sun
that never sets.

Call.
It calls you—
the soft rasp of crickets across the fields of skin,
rusted curtains and old grief,
sacred circles drawn upon the rooftop.
Even in deep darkness,
when the throat is pierced with sobs,
it waits for the first cock's cry.

It calls in luminous voices:
pearl bells, lute, flute,
the resonant beat of the cosmic clock.

If you will, in that single breath,
you will see the Source
walking with you along the path.

—MyKoul