The Seekersbof Paradise Poem by Mystic Qalandar

I have spoken with the seekers of Paradise—

radiant-faced,
pale-faced,
their foreheads darkened
by the marks of prostration.

They pray.
They fast.
They keep vigil
until the night grows old.

I asked:

Why do you seek the houri there
when beauty is already spread around you
in this sacred cosmos
where the Beautiful reveals Itself?

When beauty already walks beside you
upon this sacred earth?

Why do you seek rivers
of water, wine, milk, and honey
when four rivers flow
beneath the silence of your heart?

You say:

"There is a Paradise beyond."

I say:

Look closer.

The door you seek
has no distance.

The river you seek
has no shore.

The wine you seek
is not the wine that intoxicates—
the wine that makes the drinker
dizzy and drowsy.

It is the wine
that awakens,
that brings sobriety,
that restores consciousness.

The houri you seek
is not a body awaiting you—

she is the beauty
through which Beauty
reveals Itself.

And Paradise?

It is not a garden
where the self goes
to possess its pleasures.

Paradise begins
when the possessor is gone,
when the Hell within
falls silent.

You bow your head
until your forehead bears the sign;

but what of the deeper prostration—

when the "I" itself
falls upon the ground?

You fast from bread,
but have you fasted
from yourself?

You keep vigil through the night,
but have you awakened
from the dream
of being separate?

You seek God
as though He were elsewhere.

But who is it
that stands between you and Him?

Burn that one.

Let the lover burn.
Let the Beloved remain.

Let the name fall silent.
Let the Named remain.

Let the seeker vanish
into the Seeking.

Then ask:

Who entered Paradise?

There was no one.

Who found the Beloved?

There was no one.

Only the Beloved remained—

and the cry
of the heart:

I am not here.

Only He is.

—MyKoul