When The Crescent Withheld Its Light Poem by Mystic Qalandar

The crescent hung—a sliver, thin and late,
yet veiled within a stillness in the sky,
as though the heavens held their breath in wait,
to murmur warnings none would hear nor try.

Below, the bazaars throbbed with fevered light:
the grasp for silk, the trance of trader's gleam;
hearts bartered truth for fragments dressed as light,
and dreamt themselves within a lesser dream.

No gaze was raised to read the silent scheme.
The sky spoke thunder—soundless, vast, and clear—
while earth replied in clamour, loud, supreme,
and drowned the signs it strained itself to hear.

I wondered: is the Final Folding near—
the hush before the gathering of Light?

When souls, by market-mist and myth made sheer,
spin veils that blind their inward, fading sight?

When even children chase what echoes yield,
and fail to hear the firmament's soft plea—
those quiet sighs across the unseen field
that call the heart to what it is to be?

Joy is no trespass, nor is love a crime—
but when the ruh forgets to bow, to see,
even the noor is lost within the climb
of all that drowns what it was meant to be.

O fleeting dunya—gentle, perilous—
your gifts descend like dew, then disappear;
you promise much, yet leave the inward thus:
a thirst no transient sweetness can make clear.

The crescent dimmed—not in the darkened dusk,
but in the eyes that would not seek beyond;
for light was never less—it was the husk
of sight that failed to answer what it dawned.

—MyKoul