When The Sun's Brushstroke Splits Poem by Mohammad Younus

When the sun's brushstroke splits the steel-lit veil of winter,
its molten gold spills through cracks in the clouds,
thawing eyes frozen in the grip of winter.
The world hums—a hymn spun from light's loom—
unfurls the tight-wound knots of wandering souls,
cracking open a trove of gnosis, where shadows once coiled.

See how the air shivers with shattered diamond dust,
each mote a prism of forgotten truths, rising
from the abyss like gemstones of knowing,
clutching at the hem of light.
They become beacons
for pilgrims whose footsteps falter on ice-glazed roads,
for those who've squinted too long at life's smudged ink.

This is no mere dawn—it's a chorus of photons,
a symphony of radiance poured into marrow.
The sea, too, wears the sun's caress, its waves
a liquid waltz where gilded tides pirouette,
their rhythm an ancient pulse beneath the froth.
Even the wind carries notes—not sound, but *feeling*—
a resonance that unknots the sinews of doubt.

Here, in this alchemy of glare and glimmer,
darkness unravels its fist. The mind's labyrinth,
where phantoms once gnawed at the walls,
is flooded with a tonic of clarity. Illusions molt
like brittle husks, revealing the raw, wet truth beneath—
a glimpse of the infinite stitched into finite seconds.

Hold this. Let it sear your palms:
the divine does not shout. It lingers
in the amber glaze of afternoon,
in the way light bends to anoint your face,
in the silent aria of a world remade.
This is the pact—eyes and ears filled
with gold-leafed revelation, the sacred alchemy
of being briefly, fiercely *unhidden*.

MyKoul