The One Song Poem by Mystic Qalandar

I sing where Truth resounds—
ancient, unbroken,
its echo older than silence.

My voice is the divine chord,
striking love awake
in the marrow of stars,
in the breath of every name.

I sing only what I hear
in the wound of my own depths:
that frequency without origin,
that flame without wick.

But late I woke:
I am the echo singing to itself.
The singer, the sung, the listening air—
one covenant, one homecoming
into the Self that has no other.

No question remains outside the questioner.
No seeker trails the found.

And now I know:
no song is separate from the Song.
It moves already on the tongues of stones,
in the whisper of roots,
in the cry of collapsing suns.

What I call mine is not mine—
it is the same eternal melody
unfolding on ten thousand tongues,
yet never leaving its single note.

We are its instruments, its intervals,
its holy stammer.

Though we sing in fragments,
the whole hums through us—
one resonance, one remembrance,
one syllable that breathes through us.

—MyKoul