The Song Of Wahdat Poem by Mystic Qalandar

No human, beast,
nor stone, nor plant,
nor insect stays—
no fettered form endures.

The One alone presides
through every ordered sphere.
He wears the mask of blaze
and darkness, unveiling
where the ego's current glides.

That phantom veil is He—
the Veiler of His own
deep gaze in seas
where Sailor and the wave are true.
Guides turned to robbers?
Nothing left to seize or loan
when Branch and Taker share one Root,
one stem, one dew.

The self's blood spills
where no blood runs—
the same one breath
from Abel's cry and Cain's cold silence,
twin as lungs.
The Archer spends Himself
inside the target's sheath;
no Great Veil left
but sight of Him on which it hung.

Ripples never leave the deep
that gave them form—
awake or asleep,
one Dreamer's boundless worth.
"I" and "You" are masks
upon the Name, one warm
breath held in frameless mirror:
Truth devours the birth.

What gap between this life and death?
Mirage calls mirage across
the world's brief breath.
Yet nothing slips forgotten—
only He who rises, falls, and sprawls
as the Rememberer's sea
from His eternal lips.

"Rescue humanity! "
the aching heart must cry—
but Night itself is His dark eye,
the sovereign crown.
The Perfected Soul:
pure polish, gathered sky,
both bower and bowed-to,
both the flame and the down.

The sun grows rayless;
shadows trail His moving hand.
Each trial is thirst, and drinker,
and the taste—the strand
of Love's first premise.
Partial mind, though blindly manned,
wars against its own shade,
sinking in the sand.

The Witness rests serene
and surveys the play.
Awakening?
When the sleeper sees
that waking, too, is fray—
His weave, His thread, His loom.
Iblis's dark "No"—
a syllable of Mercy's deeper Yes,
the undertow.

The drop is ever Ocean,
even mid its game.
Annihilation: the flame made one
with its own flame.
Torment and bliss meet
where all opposites unname
their quarrel and kiss
within His gifts—the same.

Wall and its breaker?
Khidr's concealed face rides
inside the storm-torn sail,
the splintered keel that hides.
Hardship is Ease within the fold of
command's deep tides;
Unity moves without a hand—
thus was it judged, abides.

Seer, seeing, seen—
three words, one silence, one
word in the silent Book
heard ringing when all is done.
From clink of chains
to the humming atom's tone,
the Many's winding song returns:
the Only One.

No singer. Sleeper.
Path that one may tread.
Only the Real. Only He. Only God.

—MyKoul