Only God knows
who hides behind the glowing screen—
faceless, nameless—
yet heavy with the smoke
...
I was granted a span—
a breath within eternity—
a sacred trust from God,
to walk as vessel and flame,
...
Now I belong to no one.
I am only One's—
Not my own name's,
Nor borrowed titles',
...
Believe this—
You are the cosmos'
most wondrous masterpiece,
a living art
...
I have erased
the script of all desires,
laid the tablet of my dreams
upon Your path.
...
Passing through the station
of annihilation within annihilation,
I buried all my desires
in the dust of that One Command—
...
The Voice of the Soul —
A Quest for the Knowledge of Truth*
If we have never longed—
...
Where love's voice hums—
in silent sound,
A depth unmoved, yet deeply found—
The Prophet stands
...
A stranger,
exiled from his homeland,
walks silently among thorns,
gathering his cloak with both hands,
...
On the lofty heights of the past—
when those whose eyes held only
a dim, unborn light
still lay hidden in their mother's womb,
...
Did I ever truly leave the sea for a lake—
the deep blue for gentler light?
The roar of waves for quiet shores,
for ripples barely heard?
...
Though You—the Causeless—
breathed me into being,
I pray this self not vanish
into the fractured dream of duality.
...
[Verse 1]
Each day brings a quiet victory,
As I wrestle with what's deep in me.
This war within, I fight alone—
...
Will that moment ever rise—
When from the dust of earth,
Love's ecstasy takes flight?
Mountains cleave their silent chests,
...
Behind The Screen
Only God knows
who hides behind the glowing screen—
faceless, nameless—
yet heavy with the smoke
of a thousand vanished homes.
My heart weeps
for children wrapped in silence,
for mothers clutching
only dust and ghosts,
for fathers erased
between one breath and the next.
We hold no answers—
only echoes of questions
howled into the void:
Why this rage?
Why this ruin?
Why the slaughter of the innocent?
Yet even in silence,
we hear the scream
that shudders through the earth—
the cry of a people,
victims of genocide,
as the world watches.
But listen—
a single thread of hope remains,
spun from the rhythm of a poem,
from trembling hands
that still remember
how to mourn,
how to tremble,
how to love.
Mystic Qalandar