The Eternal Witness Poem by Mystic Qalandar

I am the breath before the first word,
the silence inside the thunder.
Every cell a scripture,
every particle a prayer—
proton and neutron trembling
in the liturgy of the Real.
I do not merely exist.
I surge—
the way lava remembers
it was once the molten heart
of the world,
before it was given a name.
There is a Sultan within
who built his throne
from borrowed darkness,
who crowned himself king
of a kingdom he never owned.
I am the fire that remembers
the palace is made of paper.
I am Azrael—
not death, but the dissolving:
the moment the ego's long winter
finally releases
into something
older than fear.
I am the flame that does not consume—
that illuminates
what tyranny spent centuries
trying to keep dark.
I fall.
Of course I fall.
Even stars collapse
before they scatter themselves
as light
across ten thousand worlds.
But I return—
not as vengeance,
not as conquest—
as the witness,
the one who cannot be lied to,
the one who looks upon the self
with eyes of sacred fire
and weeps—
and in weeping, liberates.
When I awaken,
the commanding self
turns to ash and incense.
The idols crack—
not from violence
but from the unbearable nearness
of the Real.
Sky trembles.
The earth remembers
it was always holy ground.
I am Noor Ahadiah—
the Light of the One,
breathing itself
into form,
into struggle,
into this—
this eternal returning,
this undying uprising,
not against others
but against the dream
of separation itself.
I am not the rebel
who storms the gate.
I am the gate,
finally opened.
I do not die.
I do not conquer.
I dissolve—
and in dissolving,
I become
everything
the tyrant feared.

—MyKoul