Where Does The Time Go? Poem by Mystic Qalandar

Time—
neither arriving
nor departing.
Not a river flowing,
nor a shadow fleeing—
but the ground
beneath all moments,
the unspoken space
from which change is born.

Here, in the quiet sanctum
of Kashmir's Sufiana Music,
the Ustad steps forward—
a snap, a tap, a breath.
Each note asks a question,
each silence whispers the answer.

Nothing but Sufiana Music—
yet within its freedom
a secret order blooms,
a subtle architecture
woven from sound and pause,
mirroring the cosmos:
the eternal dance
of being and non-being.

They pull us inward,
beyond the noise of clocks,
to a space where sound
becomes thought,
and thought dissolves
into pure presence—
a luminous field
where a silent light shines,
singing the eternal rhythm
of creation itself,
emerging from the unmanifest,
awakening into form.

Oh, this revelation—
quiet, yet electric.
Alive in the paradox
of stillness and motion,
a mystery breathed
through bone and soul.

So, where did the time go?
Nowhere.
It was only a concept,
the mind measuring change.
Behind it, the timeless "I"—
the silent witness,
the awareness in which
all moments rise and fall.

Time is no thief, no giver.
It is the pulse of consciousness,
the intimate rhythm of existence—
the very space that holds me,
and within it, I am boundless.

Time is me.
And I am the stillness
that makes time possible.

— September 26,2025