The God-Intoxicated Dervish Poem by Mystic Qalandar

The God-Intoxicated Dervish

The God-intoxicated dervish
casts away his senses—
not into madness,
but into that Light
before which
the logical mind
falls pale.

God-intoxicated dervish
slips beyond the prison
of the self,
whose borrowed gleam
once imagined itself the dawn.
Freed from the tyranny of becoming,
he enters the silence
where every name dissolves,
every form bows,
and only the One Light remains.

God-intoxicated dervish
sees not through the eyes,
knows not through the mind;
for the heart, awakened by Love,
becomes the mirror
in which the Infinite
beholds Itself.

The God-intoxicated dervish
steps beyond
the prison of the self—
the self that once mistook
its own reflection
for sunlight.

The God-intoxicated dervish
flees every color and scent—
the golden robe of fame,
the muted hymn of praise,
the mirror that returns
nothing but faces.

The God-intoxicated dervish
turns instead
toward what can be seen
yet never named.

The God-intoxicated dervish
washes away all colors in one wine—
black, green, blue—
offered to a love
that does not possess but dissolves.

The God-intoxicated dervish
knows colors are names:
tribe, creed, rank, caste.
The God-intoxicated dervish
asks the one whose cup
holds wine and no name.

The God-intoxicated dervish
finds worship itself
becomes a spectacle
when the brow touches earth
for any eye but God's.

The God-intoxicated dervish
tires of the marketplace of seclusion,
the lined disciples, the thrones of masters,
and pride that mistook the crown
for humility.

The God-intoxicated dervish
seeks only
that low door
through which servants pass,
heads bowed.

The God-intoxicated dervish
sweeps the threshold of his soul
clean of pebbles—greed,
of ash—envy,
of mud—comfort.

The God-intoxicated dervish
has washed his heart
not with Zamzam nor rivers,
but with a silence
that drowned in longing
and surfaced as a pearl.

The God-intoxicated dervish
reveals not a particle of his vision—
not from secrecy,
but because words are cups
and the ocean will not fit.

The God-intoxicated dervish
knows who knows is silent.

The God-intoxicated dervish
bows low when he attains,
like a lone candle facing wind
yet not extinguished.

The God-intoxicated dervish
clasps the swirling cloak
of the intoxicated ones—
their wine is Being
beyond all intoxications.

The God-intoxicated dervish
dances in remembrance,
and in that dance
finds the self
that, by losing itself, gains all.

The God-intoxicated dervish
drinks one cup—
it burns away every name
he was called.

The God-intoxicated dervish
lets every boundary,
every self-made chain,
every walled garden
turn to dust.

The God-intoxicated dervish
watches from dust rise a new man
with no name.

The God-intoxicated dervish
becomes at last
the perfected human, the true Muslim—
not by cloak, rite, or lineage,
but by annihilation
where everything erases
and only love remains.

The God-intoxicated dervish
knows love keeps nothing,
and in that emptiness
all things dwell.

The God-intoxicated dervish
has rare qualities:
hands empty,
heart full,
gaze lifted,
head bowed.

The God-intoxicated dervish
is the one
whose intoxication
has made him knowing of God,
and loving.

—MyKoul