The One Who Was Never Born Poem by Mystic Qalandar

I. The Burial

Beneath the silt of years,
beneath forgetting's many veils—
where roots do not ask why
the flower must break through darkness—

I buried the child I was:
unwashed,
unblessed by any prayer,
without a single word
to mark his going.

Because some births
are unbearable to remember—
the terrible knowledge
that they happened
while you were still dead.

---

II. The Birth

Then—a new child
opened his eyes:

one who smiles
without distrusting mirrors,
who loves
without counting wounds,
who breathes
without measuring breath,
who knows Oneness
as simply
as lungs know air.

I held him
with these hands.

---

III. The Memory

And this is the miracle—

I was returned
the memory of love,
the echo of Oneness
before I learned
to fracture the One.

No longer that fool
who called hope
a future thing,
not knowing
that the future
is Now flung forward—
this moment's
mirror-image.

---

IV. The Now

Standing here,
nothing seems distant.

No need to descend
into the past,
no need to ascend
toward imagined heavens,
reviving every ghost.

I have learned:

Paradise is not
some lost garden
buried in the beginning.

And Hell needs no flame—
it is kindled by these hands,
with wood
we gathered ourselves.

---

V. The Answer

Sometimes,
in the hush before morning,
I ask myself:

Are you still there?

And silence replies
with that terrible courtesy
of one who knows
too much to speak.

So I smile.

There is something sacred
in burying an old self,
birthing a new one,
and continuing
in the True Name.

---

VI. The Awakening

Perhaps I have become
consciousness aware of itself.

Perhaps there is nothing
but consciousness.

But I must not become
a grave-digger—
sifting the bones
of who I thought I was,
finding only soil.

For the grave is not empty.

I am here—
my soul present
in every place,
in every moment,
not separate from the Whole,
but breathing
within the One Divine
Consciousness.

---

VII. The Knowing

And breathing within the Whole,
I know:

I am not
the one who was buried,
nor the one
who was born.

My True Self
was never born
and cannot be buried.

It lives beyond
the veils of birth,
of death,
of all becoming.

The child was born.
The old self died.

But I—

I was never either.

—MyKoul