The Tablet Of Ideas Poem by Mystic Qalandar

I sat down to write a poem,
but the well-spring of thought had run dry,
and on the tongue of my mind
lay the seal of silence.

On the blank page
was only the shadow of mockery,
so I turned toward
the library of my soul,
and began to wipe the dust
gathered on a forgotten,
inward shelf.

That dust was not of earth or stone—
it was the dust of forgetting:
deep and hazy,
the residue of a thousand
identical days.

The moment I wiped it away
with the cloth of intention,
the air grew heavy
with the fragrance of
unspoken names,
and there,
unveiled, it appeared:
the Tablet of Ideas!

It was not written
in ordinary script,
but in luminous
geometric forms,
in the silent language
that came before
Babel of voices,
in the eternal,
timeless symbols
of the universe.

Its surface was colored
like the depth of space,
its corners curved
as though it were still
an untouched thought.

With these eyes
I could not read it—
these eyes needed nothing
but shadows and reflection.

So I closed them.
I read its markings
with the open eye of the heart,
with the soul's thousand-petaled lotus.

Every symbol was a seed of being,
a universe folded into a single letter,
a truth
that was itself a path.

I did not decipher it;
I remembered it.
I did not learn it;
I recognized it—
it was the memory
of my own origin.
And the poem began to shape
on its own.

Not I,
but the 'Whole' within me
wrote it.
The words were not chosen,
they were chosen for me,
the way rain falls
from a heavy sky.

They did not flow from my mind,
but through it—
a stream bursting from the source.
There was no struggle,
for struggle is only
the friction of duality.

There was no searching for words,
for the Word 'Be' already
existed,
a vibrating frequency
echoing through the void.

There was no searching for thoughts,
for I stood within their ocean.
And the poem was nothing
but the shape of the cup
that happened to be in my hand!

—MyKoul