The Hidden Bloom Of The Real Poem by Mystic Qalandar

A third realm? Yes—eternal's quiet undoing.
Past tumult's roar, past festering wounds,
deeper than thought's last shore,
deeper than the heart's last flame—
an eternal resonance without source.

No step leads there.
No distance waits—the Oneness veils none.
What was sought was never left.
No other—only this, mirror-clear.
No ground to stand, no height to claim,
no edge from which to fall—
only hush, where sound thins into presence,
breath without a breather,
gnosis poured, unbounded.

No welcome stirs, no farewell fades.
Only origin: reality unoccurred—the Truth.
Heart made simple, self-rust undone.

Turn—not inward (direction's cage) —
but loosen what coils as "I."
Let form give way to its own vanishing.
Let nafs fall quiet,
without naming what remains.
No ascent concealed, no rapture claimed—
only seeing before the seer gathers,
only hearing before it becomes song.

Uncovered—not by lifting veil,
but where nothing stood between:
barzakh dissolved.

At first, it seemed void.
Senses dimmed, the chamber emptied of its echo.
Self withdrew its claim—a passing dream.
I leaned: hands open, cup raised,
calling to what gave no answer—
yet poured.

Error—slight, yet complete:
absence assumed.

Then—not void, not "I"—
but the single veiled existence,
misread in naming's shadow.
What return, when none had gone?
What loss could summon what was never apart?

That emptiness—self unadorned,
mistaken lack—
offers no grasp, only embrace.
Clamor falls from center.
Scars lose their scribe.
Perception, unbound, turns edgeless—
hearing, unheld.

No witness remains to affirm its turning.
No arrival crowns the way.
The Real was home.
None came. None formed. None fell.
Only this—positionless—
knowing without divide, the Real's glance.

Hearing flows—resonance without edge.
Seeing shines—seerless, unclaimed.
The secret unfolds—untouched, unheld—
the unseen made clear.

A question almost rose: When did this begin?
It faded in the turning.
When did it end? —never asked.
No place, no name—both loosen, passing.
Dawn and dusk, undivided.

Words approach—fall into quiet
where naming cannot follow.
What seemed silent was never so—
the secret, always sounding.

This breath—not taken, not given—unbroken,
before and after thought of more—
One, without second,
without likeness,
without other.

—MyKoul