Intiqāl (Transference Of Being) Poem by Mystic Qalandar

What dies is the robe of days, not the weaver.
What fades is the vessel of clay, not the wine.
What shatters is the mirror of breath—
not the face held in its silver.

Death is no sundering—only a slow turning,
a passing from one lit room to the next,
a hushed step across the threshold of dawn.

We live to live, not to perish.
Even the falling leaf writes its return
in the language of roots and silent earth.

Intiqāl—the soul's quiet migration,
a breath released into an elder wind.
Each ending is a folded map;
each beginning, a star uncharted.

I knew this before language clothed my bones,
before fear carved its name upon the wall.
When others stood frozen at the grave's mouth,
I heard a whisper beyond the veil—
an echo saying: The soul is a nomad,
wearing only temporary skins of sun and shadow.

I saw the Spirit as a pilgrim,
shedding cloaks of dusk and dawn—
a traveler pausing only to drink
from the well of the timeless.

And in that knowing,
the grief of parting unknotted itself.
What can be lost
when God is the river,
and you are its flowing?

Even stillness began to shape itself into song—
each pulse a translation
of the Infinite breathing through a fragile form.
To hold the world is to be held by wonder,
to see that nothing is owned,
and thus, all is home.

I cannot die.
For life is not a thing kept,
but a continual offering—
a river spilling always
into the ocean of its origin.

The higher the peak,
the deeper the valley—
each a reflection of the other,
each a gesture of the One.

In my breaking, I learned how light enters.
The cracks were not wounds but windows.
Through them, mercy streamed in,
and grace—unasked, unearned—
rewove me on the loom of love.

Intiqāl was my unraveling and my remaking.
When I crossed,
I became the same flame
in a different lamp.

For life was never mine to clutch—
it was the lent Breath of the Divine,
clothing itself in this dust for a season.

And now I see:
how could that Breath ever be extinguished?
It does not pause—
but flows on in new garbs,
into the eternal, soundless sea.

— October,19,2025