Your Kiss Upon The Brow Of The Eternal Poem by Mystic Qalandar

That last kiss you gave me—
it was no kiss.
It was a silent covenant
pressed upon the brow of pre-eternity.

Then you said:
I bring you forth from my own hidden fire,
from that secret of my beauty
which had not yet been bound
by name or form.

I remember that moment—
how subtle, how sweet—
when there was no time, no space,
no distance, no face of separation.
Only a stillness. You were,
and in your presence, my not-being.

I wished to remain before you in that station
where the gaze becomes its own object,
where love allows no distinction
between lover and beloved.

But you were in haste—
to dispatch me toward the earth,
to plant a star's dream
within the sleep of clay,
and to reveal yourself—
your names and attributes—
through the form of a human being.

For it was your great day:
the descent of the unseen into witness,
the undefined becoming defined,
and colourless light
scattering itself
into a universe of colours.

Then you drew me close,
lowered me into
the towering mirror of your being,
and for the first time whispered
into the ear of your own image:
Am I not your Lord?

In that question lay the silence of centuries,
and within that silence, the answer
of all ages yet to come.

I said Yea—but it was not my voice.
You were addressing your own reflection,
and you yourself were giving the answer.

Then you declared:
Soon you will know that you,
though made in my image,
are not severed from me.
You are the wave, and I am that ocean
concealed within the depth of every wave.
You are the ray, and I am that sun
which blazes in every beam
without dividing itself.

There is only a mirror between us—
a barzakh, a delicate veil of perception.
When this mirror shatters,
then beholder and beheld,
lover and beloved,
seeker and sought—
all names will lose their meaning.
Then there will only be seeing,
and in that seeing, no one who sees.

Suddenly a gust of wind
passed through my heart and mind,
as though fate had for the first time
set its pen upon the scroll of time.

I trembled for a long while.
Even in that solar warmth
you bid me farewell,
and I saw:
all the obstructions of the road—
body, time, desire, fear—
standing between me and you.

Yet I knew:
none of them are permanent,
for the path of nearness
is not walked by feet—
it is traversed by grace.

You had to journey through me,
to seek the trace of your own dreams,
to hear your own lost voice
within my letters,
and to find your own love
in the beating of my heart.

So for yourself
you intended a magnificent journey—
in which you are
the traveller and the destination,
the road and the longing for the road.

Then, as you turned
at the last bend of the lane,
you looked back once.
I imagined you were addressing me—
but I understood afterward:
you were speaking to yourself.

And you said to yourself:
I will meet you again.

Since then I have known:
my entire existence is the commentary
upon that one sentence,
and all the turning of the cosmos
is the interpretation
of that covenant at Alast.

I do not search for you.
I am only returning toward
the memory of that moment
where there had never been
any separation.

Neither you.
Nor I.

—MyKoul