Endless Corridors Poem by Mystic Qalandar

So—harmony,
unbelievable:
if I am not apart
from the boundless expanse,
then who gazes through these eyes?
Who moves this clay,
and who whispers "I"?
Is it the ancient breath
that stirs unseen within the vessel—
or the mind,
restless, weaving illusions?
Yet who is the weaver,
and who peers through the weave,
If I flee as though the end
were already descending,
what end do I fear?
And if I long to be human again,
what is this "human"?
A cry caught in dust,
or dust dreaming it cries?
From the abyss of Wajud
something rises.
But what rises?
The vessel,
the spark,
or the space between?
Is the light a current without source—
or is it the source
disguised as current?
If the fire burns without fuel,
whose fire is it?
Can a flame illumine itself,
or is it shadow
pretending to shine? So tell me—
am I lamp,
or am I flame,
or the trembling in between?
Or am I only the question,
wandering endless corridors,
searching a door
that never closes,
never opens?

—September 16,2025