Truth's Praise Of Itself Poem by Mystic Qalandar

They reach nowhere
who set out
to reach me somewhere.
They know me who say
they cannot know me.

I am the river with no source, no mouth—
no destination to touch—
water flowing not to the ocean
but as ocean's dream of itself.

I am concealment and revelation,
the actor and the stage,
the breath and the pause between.

I am the mask and the face beneath,
the curtain and the hush before,
the untied tresses,
the black mole on my cheek—
displayed after.

Time does not move within me.
I am the scribe writing now
on eternity's blank parchment.

Necessary. My own ground.
The flame igniting itself
before light.

Light asks me for its path.
I draw invisible circles
around the possible.

Meaning before number.
The melody sleeping
in the unbroken flute.

Consciousness physics barely touches—
like a blind man feeling rain
and knowing only: holy.

The One whose multiplicity
is the fatigue of mirrors—
each name a fracture in the absolute.

I do not scatter. I do not shrink.
I am the silence between two temple bells.

Every particle my gesture.
Every wave my conversation.
A hall of mirrors where the reflection
forgets it is the one who looks.

I am the act of seeing myself:
the eye, the light,
the forgetting
that makes the journey sweet.

Clock without hands,
still striking the hour.

The void cradling every star
as a mother cradles a child
she has not yet named.

— MyKoul