Riddle Of The Self Poem by Mystic Qalandar

My name is carved into my face
but I need a mirror to see it—
a silver surface conjuring
my phantom twin,
the mark I carry within.

No whispers of angels in my sleep.
No secret embraces in dreams.
My eyes, sealed against the stars,
refuse the night.
I am the one who wakes for light.

I speak to you—
brilliant minds building reality
from thought's hard edge,
vision's cold precision.

I wake alone
in this dark chamber
until the first faint light
shatters the spell,
spreading brightness
across the floor.
My being opens.
I am known, singular,
real.

But wonder persists:
How can a seed contain a flower?
How can a flower hold its seed?
How can darkness birth light?
How does silence hold such power?