The Seasons Of Consciousness Poem by Mystic Qalandar

Bloom like a flower—
not as one who blooms,
but as the blooming itself.

Scatter like fragrance into the unseen,
where scent becomes memory,
and memory becomes the invisible architecture
of what is yet to come.

Fall like a petal—
not into loss,
but into the fertile darkness
where every ending conceals a beginning.

Grow through winter's silent gestation,
and awaken anew when spring returns—
not as you were,
but as life unfolding in an unfamiliar form.

Change is not an ending
but the rhythm of unfolding—
the ancient pulse,
the heartbeat of the One
through which the Many reveal themselves.

Not death, but metamorphosis;
not loss, but translation
into the tongue of what cannot be spoken.

Through every turning of the seasons,
the seed takes root in the subterranean temple,
the stem rises through the planes of being,
and the blossom opens as a prayer
to the unseen sun.

Each return, yet never quite the same—
for the river of becoming flows through new banks,
and the wheel of time turns around a still point
that never moves.

Such is the way of the Tree of Life:
its roots embrace the earth,
its branches reach into the sky,
while its leaves draw nourishment
from the breath of the Spirit.

And after every fall,
the promise of blossoms
lies hidden in the seed.

Life wears the changing forms of time
without exhausting its timeless mystery.

For time is but a garment
woven by the eternal
to clothe its naked, unknowable presence.

So too, perhaps, the flowering of consciousness
moves through its seasons—
its own revolving year
of winter and spring,
of summer and autumn.

Each season reveals its particular colours,
fragrances, and forms;
each conceals within itself
the promise of what has yet to emerge—
the seed of the next becoming
hidden in the heart of the present fading.

The landscapes change.
The familiar fades into the mist of memory.
What once seemed eternal
slips beyond our grasp
like water through fingers
that cannot hold the ocean.

Yet something in this mystery
resists the finality we assign to appearances—
like the hidden life within a seed,
waiting in darkness
for an unknown spring.

For no flower's fading
is the final word of flowering.

The blossom falls into the cradle of the earth.
The seed is scattered across the fields of time.

Life withdraws from the eye of the beholder,
and what appears to end
may become the beginning of another unfolding—
another turn of the spiral
that deepens even as it returns.

Thus turns the Tree of Life:
from seed to flower,
from flower to seed;
from silence into being,
from being into silence—
the changing faces of an unbroken mystery.

The One becomes Many,
and the Many return to the One—
not in a circle that closes,
but in a spiral that opens
into ever-deepening mysteries
of the same inexhaustible Light.

Perhaps our lives, too,
are seasons of this flowering:
each birth a spring,
each departure an autumn,
each silence a winter
in whose stillness the unseen awaits its hour.

And death—
what do we know of death
beyond the falling of a flower?

What if the end we fear
is but a threshold,
a veil,
a mist that parts before the pilgrim
who has walked through many deaths
and found in each a door?

What if the fading of a form
cannot tell us
whether the life that moved through it
has reached its end—
or merely changed its mode of being?

The flower returns in the promise of its seed.
The tree renews itself with the turning of the year.

But consciousness—
what hidden season does it inhabit?
What silence holds it?
What mystery lies beyond its passing forms?

Perhaps the roots reach deeper
than the eye can follow—
into the ground of being,
into the abyss where all possibilities sleep
in the womb of the unmanifest.

Perhaps the flowering extends
beyond the boundaries we have drawn around it—
for who has seen the full circumference of a soul?

And who can say where consciousness begins—
or where, in the boundless mystery of the Real,
its flowering ends?

For the flower does not know the gardener,
and the wave does not know the sea—
yet both are held in the same embrace.

The seasons turn.
The wheel revolves.
The spiral deepens.

And through it all,
the One remains—
unmoved, unborn, undying—

the still point of the turning world,
the hidden Sun behind all suns,
the silent Word before all words,

the Ground that holds all grounds,
the Depth that calls all depths
to rise, to flower, to fall, and rise again—

forever and ever,
world without end.

Amen.

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— MyKoul