No Servant, No Master Poem by Mystic Qalandar

They call it
the bond of master and servant—
as if we are trapped
in some binding contract:
signed, sealed,
and destined to fail.

What a neat little phrase
for something so obscure,
so heartbreakingly unknowable.

A loop, in truth—
a connection?
or an evasion?
or a swing of delusion
disguised as control.

People line up for it,
pay its price,
spill their blood for it—
to become
obedient servants
of some unseen Lord.

But when you
truly love—
love, pure and uncoerced—
there is no compulsion,
no command,
no fear or force.

Only presence—
that which is—
or She who is—
or whatever truth there is
of time and stillness:
that which fills
the space between your breaths
until you forget
where you end
and truth begins.

Love is not blind—
no, it sees.
It unveils,
everything—subtle or dense—
laid bare in its light.

Though the unwise
still squint their eyes
at the brilliance
shining before them—
they cannot see it.

But the Ghawth—
the kohl of love
had sharpened his vision.
When his eyes
touched the light,
he recognized
that soft, quiet being
singing within his own chest.

And when it rises—
oh, when it comes—
it is no passing fragrance,
but the soul's own recognition:
that it, in its essence,
is flower, and fragrance,
and the nightingale, too.

So no—
neither servant, nor master.
The master is the servant,
the beloved is the lover.

I do not believe in roles—
I believe in union.
Like Majnun believes
in his own madness,
in that devouring spark
that burns the very language of duality,
till Majnun cries:
Ana Layla! —(I am Layla!)
And if you ever find that—
if truth ever opens itself to you—
may the Eternal Truth uphold you.
For you
will never again be
as you were before.
And you
will never again even dream
of