The Orbit Of Truth Poem by Mystic Qalandar

Gnosis—
it takes only a second.
Mukti doesn't demand a lifetime,
only the span
of a sesame seed
rolling down the horn
of a bull.

In that sliver of stillness,
the veil thins—
grace descends.

To receive grace,
to become grace—
this is the soul's ascent:
from the netherworlds
to heavenly realm—
from earth's ache
to heaven's hush.

The soul transfigures—
becomes what you truly are:
not the body,
not the breath,
but the boundless secret,
the hidden root,
the indivisible thread.

Be willing to flop,
then to fly—
to stumble like a child
learning sky-speech,
then glide
through the vast, tender silence
of the Real.

It's not hard—
not really.
Small flops.
Little flights.
Yet the yearning
spans galaxies.

The call is ancient—
Alast—
'Am I not your Lord? '
And still, we rise
to remember
we are not insects
crawling in the mud,
but mirrors—
shards of a sun
too vast to see whole.

We—
all of us—
each form, each soul,
ride together
on this sacred orbit,
spinning
day
after
day,

until illusion dissolves,
until the self
returns to the Self,
until the drop
knows it is the sea,
and the sea
remembers
it has always
been the drop.

There is no other.
No separation.
Only One—
in endless form—
each breath,
each being,
a verse
of the same