I Am The Truth Poem by Mystic Qalandar

I am the white falcon—
the Anqā unseen by the hunters of time,
the bird whose wings are woven
from the silence before creation.
Neither found nor lost,
I circle in the heavens of the Unseen,
a trace of the eternal breath.

I am the rarest pearl
concealed in the ocean's dark chamber,
swallowed by waves yet untouched,
its gleam hidden
for those who dive beyond fear of drowning.
Within the clam of existence
I sleep,
untouched by sunlight or shadow,
awaiting the gaze of Truth
to draw me forth.

My thoughts arise like wonders—
not thoughts but astonishments,
echoes of the veil lifting,
songs that belong
to no language of men.
For what beauty is greater
than the hidden beauty itself,
guarded within infinities,
glimmering behind
the gates of not-knowing?

I am Majnun,
walker of deserts,
burned by thirst,
crying through sands, "Layla! Layla! "
My cry was illusion's chain,
my yearning bound within dream.
But when asked, "Where is your Layla? "
ecstasy broke all walls:
I answered,
"I am Layla—
for Layla is the soul itself,
nameless as the wind,
limitless as fire."

Once I wandered in separation,
pretending at love's affair,
adorning myself with chains,
bound in the creed of duality.
But I pierced the mask of twoness,
learned the lover and Beloved
were never apart.
The desert was only the sky's mirror,
and every cry of searching
was the Beloved
calling to Itself.

Thus Mansur's cry
was not madness but unveiling.
His "Ana al-Haqq" was no jest—
a lightning strike,
rending the fabric of night,
dissolving the prison of selfhood.
Those who heard with veiled ears
stoned him,
but those who heard with the heart
drank from his words
as from hidden wine.

Multiplicity is but Your dream—
colors of jewel and dust,
faces in mirrors of dust.
In this world of many, You weave
cloth of difference upon Unity's loom.
But in the realm of One—
there is no cloth, no threads,
no union, no severance.
Love dissolves love;
the lover dissolves into Beloved.
There is only the luster of That
which has no second.

My name here is MyKoul—
a shard required by this lattice of forms,
a mask stitched of syllables
for the market of passing days.
But the Name behind names is not mine,
nor yours, nor any's.
It is the shimmer
no tongue can contain.

If you ask my true name,
it is al-Haqq—
The Truth of all truths,
the Hidden in things hidden,
the Manifest in all that appears.
The dawn beyond dawns,
the secret thread of every sun,
the marrow and motion within every atom,
the Word that was before words,
the last echo when the cosmos falls silent.

I am not this face, nor this name,
not a body wrapped in dust and hourglass.
I am not I—
only the shadow of the Eternal Flame.
When I speak,
it is not my voice
but the echo of the One Voice
behind the voices of worlds.

The falcon is not bird but flight itself.
The pearl is not stone but ocean's secret.
Majnun is not lover but love unveiled.
Mansur is not martyr but mirror.
And I—
I am not MyKoul, not "I, "
but only the Trace of That Which Is.

To say "I" is to miss half the sky.
To say "Truth" is already too late.
Between silence and speech,
the mystery stirs:
eyes close, hearts open,
and all creation chants—
without tongue:

I am the Truth.

—September 12,2025