In The Sanctrum Of The One Poem by Mystic Qalandar

The whispers ricochet through my heart—
not from some distant realm,
but from the sanctum where the Real
utters His eternal dialogue
within the mirror of my being.

A bell tolls deep within
the cavern of the Unseen—
and I discern the cavern
as my own chest,
and the Unseen as the One
who gazes through me
with an infinite eye.

I dwell within the living
cadence of existence—
a wave rising and falling
upon the boundless ocean
of His Self-disclosure.
This flesh I wear, this suede of form,
is but the vestment He wove
to behold His radiant Beauty.

Faces drift like surging tides,
yet none disturb my stillness—
for what ripple can stir
a sea that has glimpsed
its single water?

My voice—unspoken, unheard—
emerges like a moth born of eternal dusk,
its wings trembling at the threshold
between manifestation and return.
It utters no sound,
yet in its silence resounds
His speech beyond all words.

The air swells with sacred intimations—
secrets blooming from the gardens of Kun—
secrets inseparable from my essence,
for the Knower, the Knowing, the Known
are fused as one unbroken light.

Still, I clutch my secrets to my ribs,
forgetting at times
that these ribs are His latticework,
and the secrets pulse with His breath.

I don the robe of quietude,
a cloak spun from the thread
of His primal command.
It shields me from the illusions of ego,
from the nafs dreaming itself apart.

Yet in this hush, a tremor stirs—
a pulse more ancient than time,
a rhythm inscribed within my being
before the word before was spoken:
a song without a singer,
a breath without a breather,
a silence lacking two to hear.

For when the Eternal breathed Spirit
into Adam's clay,
He breathed Himself—
and the Lover, the Loved, the Loving
unfolded as one endless motion.

Thus every whisper ricochets through me,
for there is no "through, "
no "me"—
only the Real
calling the Real
back to the Real.
And in the silence that unveils,
there is only One.

—November,2o,2025