The Price Of Illusions Poem by Mystic Qalandar

What is the price
of embracing illusions,
of walking hand in hand with shadows
while the sun of truth still burns?
It is the dimming of inner light,
the silencing of essence,
the slow forgetting of who we are.

Our nafs—inclined toward the good—
is veiled by restless, hungry desires.
Illusions demand in payment
the quiet burial of that divine call:
"Am I not your Lord? "
To which we once replied—
without a breath of hesitation—Yes.

To dwell in illusion's fold
is to betray that sacred vow.
It asks me to deny my soul's own shape,
to trade this living, pulsing heart
for an empty mask.
This is no embrace,
but a cage
where love of truth turns to dust,
and freedom suffocates.

Yet even cages crack;
bars rust, shadows lose their claim.
Then a deeper belonging stirs—
where I no longer beg pardon
for the contours of my spirit,
where my voice rises—clear, unbroken—
like the dawn bird's unwavering cry.
I walk beside the river of my being,
and its waters run pure again.

In the presence of the True Self,
I find no foe to growth—
not spirit, not the world—
but harmony: twin branches
drinking from one radiant source.
Here, truth is honored, never hidden.
Here, the soul remembers
what eternity has known—
the first Yes, still alive,
still echoing within.

To belong to the True Self
is not to fade,
but to stand entire:
rooted as mountains stand,
shining as stars ignite,
flowing as rivers flow—
welcomed home
into the highest consciousness,
where the eternal Yes
resounds forever in me.