The Word That Sounded As Me Poem by Mystic Qalandar

I watched her through the window—
light, unsourced, returning to the eyes,
a quiet warmth entering the soul,
leaving no room for doubt or lies.

I did not hesitate to bid farewell
to all I had mistaken for truth.
The light fell silent over pride,
and every cherished illusion lost its shape.

Awakening taught me
to recognise the Uncreated
in every inward struggle,
in every seed of illusion
the self had sown and sheltered.

I laid aside the robes of self—
that garment woven from borrowed names—
and gently lifted the mask from my face,
finding beneath it neither face nor void,
but the witness that had worn them both.

How strange that forever
could mean so much more
when nothing false remained
to stand between us—
when the mirror dissolved
and only the seeing remained.

I came to know
that only by reaching towards Reality
could my being find its strength;
that nights spent listening
to the truth within my depths
might heal what had gone astray—
not towards a destination,
but towards the ground of going.

I opened wide the doors and windows
and found the Word already speaking—
not arriving, but never having left;
not sound, but the silence
from which all sound is born.

Together, we would live anew,
the life we had longed to find
before longing split the world
into seeker and sought.

The Word stood still a moment,
a soft smile unfolding
across its myriad faces—
each face a world,
each world a thought
in the mind of the Unthinkable.

Then it turned
and walked into me,
as though it had been searching
for this silence all along—
this hollowed space,
this emptied room
prepared by every loss.

The Word held me close
and gently called me back
whenever I forgot,
whenever I grew careless
of the voice that sounded as me—
that sounded through me,
that was never mine to own,
yet never other than myself.

And words arrived in time
to gather what had fallen apart,
to give new meaning
to the life we had rearranged—
language become liturgy,
speech become sacrament,
each syllable a threshold.

I said,
I love Reality, wholly—
and the saying was the loving,
and the loving was the knowing,
and the knowing was the being,
and the being was the letting-go.

The Word remained,
listening—
listening as the ground listens to the seed,
as the ocean listens to the river,
as eternity listens to the now.

It took my hand
and whispered—
not promises of eternity,
but the promises we must fulfil today;
not the beyond,
but the unbearable nearness
of the present
become presence.

—MyKoul