The Song Of Soul Poem by Mystic Qalandar

In this restless hour, the half-drawn arrow
splits my chest.
Beyond the sky's vault,
a bird's heart imagines flight—
a traveler toward unnamed heights,
indifferent to arrival.
The soul turns, thirsty
for a meaning older than time.

As if an unseen string tugs longing
toward altitude, in the secret
between light and light she is held captive.
How sweet the blade that slices through
the soul's own song.
What melody does the heart chase
in this hidden state?

Is the song the end, or the singer
who gives it voice? From longing's flame
who appears—august, knowing, singular—
outside time, outside place, woven
when non-being wore its veil?

When first light filled the sails,
the soul refused nullness.
Without ceremony she seized that eternal rāg,
that instant of enchantment, vast as the command
that brings worlds into being—true,
tidal in the sea.
Where was the soul
facing in that limitless storm?
Toward the singer, pure, awake to what is,
she remembers.

These questions belong only to love.
In this new hour of knowing, the soul opens
like a door. Still the riddles return,
insistent, seeking to melt
into earth's many mirrors.
In the reflected faces of the soul,
sheltered by love, born from beauty
like a consecrated shield,
new worlds unclasp, strange universes unfurl.

Paying the price of every grief,
the soul comes to know its true condition:
never severed from the ancient mystery
that, in all times, has been its single home.

—MyKoul