The Unfinished Deal Toward The Peace Poem by Mystic Qalandar

The world bears witness—
two forms seated in widening distance:
one consumed by the fire of will,
the other bowed in the long shadow of remembrance.

One speaks from chambers guarded by power,
where silence bends and echoes obey;
the other from valleys of ancient sorrow,
where grief has become a way of prayer.

They utter peace—
yet the word does not descend.
It hovers, unanchored,
a call not yet received by the heart.

Between them stretches an unseen expanse—
not measured in miles, but in veils:
fear unoffered,
truth withheld from its own light.

A barren field lies there,
etched in lines that burn like memory,
where earth remembers every wound
and hope forgets its origin.

One counts the language of iron and flame,
weighing dominion in numbers and might;
the other gathers the names of the lost
like sacred beads of broken remembrance.

And between them—
vast as the unlit depths of being—
drift the sleepless souls,
suspended in a night without arrival.

O let wisdom descend—
not as command, but as unveiling:
a covenant not written in the blood of mine and thine,
but in the knowing that none can possess
what was never separate.

Let pride, ancient and unyielding,
release its claim to certainty,
and soften into the trembling truth
of a hand that does not seek to overcome.

Let even the fire called righteous pause—
before it forgets its Source—
for a child's hunger is older than anger,
and life must be held
before meaning can be spoken.

Peace is not made
in the shadow of threat or surrender;
it is revealed
when the broken house is seen as one—
its fractures shared,
its falling owned by all.

No dwelling stands
where division is worshipped as truth;
only in the mending of the whole
does the structure remember its strength.

What victory speaks
through flags over silent dust,
where the earth is full
yet the living are empty?

True triumph is quiet—
it breathes where boundaries dissolve,
where the pulse of the world steadies in trust,
where hands exchange the bread of life
instead of the fear of loss—
and the morning arrives
unburdened by the memory of death.

So write, if writing must be done,
upon this trembling surface of time—
not the tale of conquest,
nor the illusion of triumph—
but a single opening
for what has always been waiting.

Let the ink fall inward,
like mercy returning to its source,
and settle where all divisions end—
before another breath is taken
by the hunger of fire.

For Peace is not the pause between wars.
Peace is not the silence fear creates.

Peace is The Peace—
the One without opposite,
the Presence before all claims,
the ground in which no other stands.

Until That is remembered,
every treaty is a shadow,
every silence a fragile delay.

But when That is known—
not spoken, not signed, but realized—
even the storm bows down,
and the world, at last,
returns to Itself.

— MyKoul