Zikr: Older Than The First Sigh Of Time Poem by Mystic Qalandar

Older than the first sigh of time,
older than the cry of light,
A memory from before
the void's unbright.
Carried from that Before- Before,
the unstirred stillness of the Source—
A silent note within
the silent chord,
Brimming with You alone,
the Secret's sealed design,
Who are both lock and key,
the final and first sign.

Then, kiss.
Each one a journey back
to the heart's first pulse,
its unuttered vow,
Through veils of Alast,
on the nowhere-track
Where unborn souls
in answering bowed
to the question:
"Am I not your Lord? "
And we, Your fire's own spark,
sighed: Yes.
That covenant now burns
in being's marrow-mess—
A pre-eternal Yes
that all worlds now confess.

This is no tale of reason,
but the heart's own kiss,
A love the soul knew
before"me" or "this, "
Before the loom of names
cast its pale illusion,
Splintering the One
in mirrored fission.
Here, all distinctions drown:
What's lover? What's Beloved?
A single breath
by which the All is moved,
Inhaling endlessness,
exhaling form—
Zikr, the rhythm
weathering the storm
of separation.
Forgetting is the dream;
To wake is but to kiss
the ageless theme.

None knows from where
thatzikr first arrived.
It rose from depths
before a depth was named,
From the hidden spring
where souls are yet archived,
Where leaden sleep to
golden sight is framed.
No tongue can trace
the pathway it has traveled—
It is the tongue,
in silent air unraveled,
The esoteric note
that turns time's sand
To timeless wine
held in a cupped hand.

The first zikr,
then wave on endless wave,
Belonging to the Two,
yet to the One,
Where lover and Beloved,
dancing, rave
Intofanāʾ—
until all trace is gone,
Then rise inbaqāʾ,
steadfast and alive,
Whisperingzikr
through the atom's hive,
For You—
as fresh as dawn's first,
dewy light,
As drops that hold the sun
before their flight.

Zikr is love drawn
from the primal core,
Pre‑eternal,
yet renewed forevermore,
A fragrance scattered
into breath and bone,
In every fold where
Being stands alone—
The taste ofAlast
lingering in the wind,
In the lover's gasp,
the moth to flame resigned,
The river's murmur
reaching for the sea.
It is the sound ofKun—Be! —
Your single Word
unfolding galaxies;
Each atom chants,
each heartbeat turns for home,
In this return,
no veil, no shade, no foam.

For love is not possession,
but release—
The key that turns within
the lock of self.
Scattered in rose,
in nightingale, in grief,
It gathers back into
the Soul's true wealth,
Where zikr and its silence
are the same.

MyKoul—
my saying,
my returned kiss—
A bridge from timeless
covenant to this:
Where every breath is You,
and You the breath,
From void to manifestation,
life to death.

— December,13,2025