The Hidden Musician Poem by Mystic Qalandar

It is not the cricket's voice, nor the locust's shadow.
This is no mere melody—it is a secret,
Descending from veils of light,
Like a prayer lingering on silent lips,
Hidden in the breath of the unseen musician's gentleness.

No string quivers, no footstep stirs—
Only silence listening to itself,
As if a dream's tambura hums within the quiet.

Here, the melody is not heard—
It is touched within the heart's caress.
And the soul, weightless at its center,
Begins to listen to itself.

This is the place of awakening,
Where light,
Before the birth of sound,
Blossoms gradually.

The soul, in wonder,
Holds its own ears—
Bathed in luminous, transparent light,
That asks nothing, yet gives everything.

Free from desire,
Nameless to longing,
It flows through the plains of existence's melody,
Where dreams awaken
And illusions settle like the dust of dawn.

Ancient chambers brim with light.
Walls melt in transparent bliss.
Shadows dissolve into rivers of silence.
And before us,
A subtle presence returns as clarity.

Light and melody, complete yet hidden,
Pause beneath the patient branches of being.
The heart listens to its primordial song,
Finds perfection in the void,
As the night smiles with grace,
As if being heard were itself worship.

Every star, a silent disciple;
Every breeze, a faint rhythm of remembrance.
The universe, wrapped in the veil of listening,
Breathes softly—
And in that breath, harmony is born.

And the soul—
A flute's reed trembling in a delicate wind,
Shimmering in its own reflection,
Moves soundlessly in ecstasy closer
To that musician
Who plays without playing,
To that silence
Which sings in everything.

— October,12,2025