The Friday That Never Ends Poem by Mystic Qalandar

They call it the last Friday of Ramadan,
as though time itself were closing a door.
Yet the sky does not fold its wings,
nor does the moon resign its silver orbit.
The minarets still lean toward eternity,
whispering ancient prayers of return.

Somewhere within the turning breath of dawn,
the unseen call continues its ascent.
For what is 'last' in a world
where the soul was breathed from the Eternal?
This Friday is but a single ripple
in the vast ocean of sacred hours.

Yesterday's prostration flows into tomorrow's light;
the river of remembrance never runs dry.
Ramadan is no mere passage of days—
it is a hidden chamber within the heart,
where hunger becomes a burning lantern
and silence unveils the Face of the Real.

When the final congregation disperses,
do you think the Mercy departs with them?
No—
it lingers in the fiber of prayer mats,
in trembling hands offered to the sky,
and in the quiet tears that fell unseen.

Every Friday is a returning tide;
every Ramadan a revolving gate of light.
The Beloved writes eternity
in the margins of our passing days.

So do not mourn this 'last' Friday.
Listen—
behind the curtain of time,
another Friday is already breathing,
another Ramadan gathering its stars.
And beyond them all,
the endless Friday of the soul,
where the call to prayer
is the very pulse of the Beloved's Face.

—MyKoul