The Secret Of The Indivisible Whole Poem by Mystic Qalandar

Whether mystic or stranger to the path,
Believer or wanderer through doubt's valleys—
This robe of meaning is yours alone.
Wrap yourself in it,
Or with silence and fire
Weave it anew with your hands.

Every soul is a pilgrim,
Wandering the labyrinth of forms,
Seeking that nameless flame
Hidden behind veils of appearance—
The secret buried deep,
Pulsing beneath all change.

Some bow in temples of light,
Some read ancient laments
In star-dust,
Some hear the infinite
In atoms, dreams, the breath of space.
And some cross deserts of denial
Until nothingness unveils revelation.

Who judges which traveler
Passes through which door of truth?
The Eternal speaks in shifting tongues—
In scriptures and thunderous clouds,
In mathematics and birdsong,
In saints' ecstasy,
Or the silence of those
Who refuse every name for God.

Every ray from the circle's edge
Bends toward the hidden center.
Paths seem separate in shadow,
But their geometry is one.
Every longing curves to its origin;
Every exile holds a dim memory of home.

Some enter through prayer's luminous threads,
Some by reason's polished sword,
Some through love that burns the self to ash,
Some via grief's furnace,
Some by beauty's wounding glance,
Some beneath wonder's weight.

Doors are countless,
Carved from ages and symbols:
Clay mirrors, galactic metaphors,
Flutes echoing in midnight gardens,
Wind whispering through ancient minarets.
Yet every door
Opens inward
To that boundless sanctuary
Where knower and known
Dissolve as one—
Salt into sea,
Rivers to ocean.

In the heart's hidden chamber,
Forms melt to formlessness,
Names rise like morning dew.
The seeker glimpses
That indivisible secret—
Not a distant throne,
But existence's breath,
The transparent unity
Flowing through every veil.

It pulses in the moth's wing
And galaxies' turn,
In the lover's sigh
And skeptic's silence.
No separation remains.
Seeker is sought.
Journey is homecoming,
Written in every step.

Reproach not the traveler
Whose dreams differ from yours,
Nor scorn rites not yours by fate.
Beneath belief's masks,
Beneath unbelief's ashes,
One light flows—
Seeking itself through every being.

When the final veil lifts—
That thinnest illusion—
We know this spiraling truth:
Every path, sacred or broken,
Radiant or forgotten,
Arcs to the infinite;
A return, through countless names,
To the indivisible secret
In existence's heart—
Where multiplicity yields to unity,
And glorious diversity
Mirrors the one eternal Whole.

— MyKoul