Under The Wing Of Mercy Poem by Mystic Qalandar

O my True Beloved!

Beneath the wings of Your mercy,
in that shade
where every name
loses its bounds,

I am like the falcon
who remembers no sky
but this one,

this sky
that is no sky at all,
but the shoreless expanse
of Your transcendent Essence.

Here
I am lost to myself,
and here
a veil lifts
from what I truly am.

No clamor,
no claim,
only Your nearness
descending gently.

And the iron shield
I so long mistook
for my self
falls silently away
like rust-colored leaves.

Then I learn:

I was never stone.

I was dew
resting on the morning's first breath,
glass trembling
in the unspoken light of dawn,

and a reed
joined to its reed-bed,
whose song
was yet to be born.

Frail and delicate?

Yes.

But not broken.

I am an eye
that is seen
before it sees,

an ear
that opens
for an unknown melody
before it hears,

a hidden door
on which Your light
knocks without a sound.

Then I understand:

the clay vessel
serves not by its strength
but by its emptiness.

In Your nearness
I fall still.

This stillness
is no stifling, closed room;
it is the silence of the reed
waiting for breath,

the depth of an ear
emptied for the whisper
that has always been arriving
from beyond the veils
of horizons and voices.

I am
a pause
held between two songs.

And my Beloved
keeps the secret of His coming
in this very pause.

I bow my head in surrender.

Then prostration speaks:

Silence
is a cup,

and unveiling
its wine.

Before the tongue
can speak the Beloved,
the heart must fall silent,

silent
as the desert at midnight,

still
as the soul
not yet given a name.

And then,

in this mysterious silence,
the 'I'
slowly
loses its voice.

I become the reed
that breath descends into,

the goblet
the wine fills,

the whisper
that leans on silence
to say itself.

Then I know:

silence was never empty.

From the beginning
it waited for a breath,

and that breath
was His.

— MyKoul