The Transcendent's Reed Poem by Mystic Qalandar

In the soul's locked garden,
ideas rise like weeds in spirit-rain—
Muhammadan Lights, veined embers
of the first seed, stubborn in silence.

Unbidden, like a reed with no mouth,
no breath of its own,
they root beneath the ribs,
ring through clay and blood,
until the hidden river in all things
answers itself:

The Transcendent's reed plays
through every tongue.

By the Silent Friend's immense grace, they reveal:
the lover's whisper writes the page;
the page ignites the flute's cry.

No talent crosses that distance—
only the moth's ecstatic burning,
circling the candle that erases names,
daring to bear the Hidden Real
into the marketplace of forms,
giving the reed to Love's wild breath,
beginning the dance
before the heart can see.

So write your book, wanderer on the Path:
ghazal or scrap, fiction's dream-cloth—
each spirit-born in fanā's fire.

Unwritten worlds gather like seeds
in night's dark womb of nothing,
waiting for the witness' fearless spark:

your hand—
the first stroke
by which the One remembers Itself.

—MyKoul