Turning Toward The Oneness Poem by Mystic Qalandar

Caravans set out
looking for the other side,
counting distance
in tired steps.
But the horizon
was always a trick—
the edge of something
we were already inside.

The traveler never arrived.
He dissolved
at the first step.

When the small drop of "I"
faded into morning,
there was no one left
to look for the sun—
only the sun,
seeing itself
in a mirror
it never put down.

Don't say "you and me"—
that's just tying knots
in something whole.
Don't even say "one"—
numbers already divide.

The wave thought
it was held by the shore,
but it was only the ocean
shifting its shape.

There's no bridge to cross.
There never was a gap.
Unity isn't a prize—
it's what remains
when the mind
stops making others.

A question rose—quietly,
almost as an echo—
"Where are you? "
and before it could finish forming,
something wordless
had already replied.

Nothing came from far away.
It surfaced
from the longing itself.
Before the question formed,
"Yes" was already there—
not as sound,
but as being.

You speak of returning
as if you had left,
of a path
as if there were distance.
But a rose
doesn't turn toward its scent—
it is the scent.

What you are
isn't behind you
or ahead.
It's here
before anything is named.

You're gold
dreaming you're a coin—
scratch off the imprint,
see what remains.

Saying "I am"
draws a line.
Saying "God is"
points away.

Silence before the first word
al-āna kamā kāna
Now—
as it always was.

MyKoul