The Music Speaks Poem by Mystic Qalandar

I love the music—
it enters my being
like God's quiet laughter,
echoing somewhere deep
beneath the strata of forgetting.

Each tune, a letter of mercy;
each melody, a rosary
told upon a hand
that has not forgotten
the ancient melody—
that primal vibration
before sound was sound,
when the Word was still
a sigh in the throat of silence.

Here, musician asks no exchange.
No scale weighs this bounty
that orders our remembrance.
It asks one thing only:
remember—the primordial covenant
uttered before time unfurled
its first hesitant note:
Am I not your Lord?
before the heart forgets
its origin in that first flame.

Let a faithful heart open,
and our promise of 'yes' wakes
to its boundless spring of love—
that subterranean river
flowing beneath the deserts
of our distractions.

True treasure is not
seized, but given:
wisdom, ripening into recognition
(the knower and known dissolving
in the gaze that sees itself seeing) ;
love, unfolding into compassion
(the wound that opens
to receive the other's wound) ;
hope, becoming the small courage
that walks, in the soul's hidden room,
a path already written—
for the Way is not made
by walking, but revealed
when the walker vanishes
into the walking.

Then, in that unknowing
(the most luminous knowing) ,
clouds of secrets bow and melt.
Light enters
where darkness had made its home—
not as invader, but as remembrance
of what darkness always was:
light's necessary shadow,
the chrysalis of radiance.

A white, translucent silence
floats across the wounded heart
and wipes away
the tears the world leaves unnamed—
for the world names only
what it can contain,
and some sorrows are too vast
for language's small vessels.

Grace does, without effort,
what all our striving could not—
as the river does not strive
to reach the sea,
yet arrives.

And then, without ceremony—
on the horizon of eternity
a rainbow of assurance bends:
not sign, but substance;
not promise, but presence—
a covenant of light,
a bridge between the seen and the hidden,
the manifest and the unmanifest,
the temporal and the eternal silence
from which all music springs.

Saying, wordless,
that this love—
older than time,
nearer than breath—
will not fade, will not leave,
because it is not given
but is:
the very fabric
of the seeming and the real,
the warp and weft
through which all worlds
are woven and unspun.

Music, melody, clouds, rain,
rainbow, light, river, silence,
covenant, and grateful heart:
faces of one Being,
one boundless gift—
and the grateful heart
is the gift's recognition
of itself,
the mirror in which
the Giver sees
God's own face
reflected back
in wonder.

For in the end,
there is no end,
only the endless
unfolding of the One
into the many,
and the many's slow
awakening to the One—
a melody
that has never ceased
its silent singing
in the heart of all things,
waiting
for our listening
to become
the hearing
that heals.

—MyKoul