The Loud Sufis And The Calm Sufi Poem by Mystic Qalandar

He calls the Name
as if the Name were deaf.
Drums tremble beneath his palms,
and beads scatter light
like sparks of restless thought.

He turns, he cries out,
and the air obeys his fervor.
Each "Hu" splits the veil of sound—
yet nothing answers back.
The throne within remains unoccupied.

There is motion,
but not remembrance.
There is sound,
but not the Presence that gives it birth.

The hollow of his heart
is crowded with echoes.
The ego feeds on rhythm,
growing large enough
to drown the whisper it seeks.

When asked about his ecstasy,
he smiles,
and says softly,
"It is nothing. A performance."

And beyond the clamor,
in a stillness without witness,
a true Sufi sits—
breathing the breath
that has no beginning.

No chant,
no turn,
no claim to holiness—
only the Unseen,
moving through the hollow
of a bone-dry reed,
playing its eternal tune.

In that quiet,
sound returns to silence.
In that emptiness,
the Infinite completes Its circle.

—November,1,2025