The Melody Of Kun Fayakūn Poem by Mystic Qalandar

In the beginning, there was no silence—
no absence awaiting completion—
only an unuttered Will,
dense with Its own infinity,
seeking no other,
yet unveiling Itself.

No voice was raised, no syllable formed—
only Kun.

Not spoken,
but occurring.

This Kun was never past.
At the root of every instant
it breaks forth anew:
"Every day He is upon a new affair."

The dewdrop—His fresh Breath—
not descending,
but appearing.
The drop was never other than the sea;
separation is the dream of the shore.
The eye trembles with moisture,
yet the tear refuses exile.

Upon the polished heart,
the First Letter—
upright as Alif—
writes Unity into multiplicity,
again.
Even in stillness,
I am not still.
Kun turns within my atoms;
my bones are obedient turnings.

The chinar's branches are not wood—
they are arrested waves of Command,
resonance slowed into contour,
awaiting return to motion.
Spring is not a season—
it is permission.

Across the veil of non-being,
green meanings breach the unseen
like thought breaking through unarticulated depth.

The birds do not migrate—
they remember.
In their wings hums the ancient reply:
"Am I not your Lord? "
Every flight bends toward Yes.
Every arc is obedience.

Upon the Tablet of Possibility,
melodies press against latency.
When they strike the pale horizon,
limit becomes script.
The sky yields into parchment,
and light consents to letters.

Delay belongs only to measured things.
Kun stands beyond succession.
"God was, and there was nothing with Him—
and He is now as He ever was."

The bud does not rise from soil;
soil is witness only.
The rose is not colour—
it is mercy made visible.
The tulip-field is not born of blood—
it is annihilation translated into continuity.

The world is not dispersed.
It is commentary—
a thousand exegeses
of a single, inexhaustible Word.

When the listener is undone in listening,
when the hearer falls through the heard,
it becomes clear:
Kun was never uttered once.
It has never ceased occurring.

The melody of life
is not music added to silence—
it is the unbroken resonance
of that Command.

And we—
not words,
not even echoes—
but the thinnest passing tint
cast by an unending resonance.

—February, 12,2026