The Balance Poem by Mystic Qalandar

If tomorrow we woke
to no scripture, no shadow of one—
only the body's rhythm,
the soul's quiet wonder—

What would stir first?
Would fire still burn with its secret?
The sky hold its blue without a name?

Yes—
stone its nature, water its wandering,
our hands learning the world again.
Slowly, we'd find the old language:
how light curves, seeds remember forests,
how something unseen never stopped holding us.

But tell me—
in that deep forgetting,
with no prayer, no sacred sound—
would the silence be empty?

Or would someone, nameless,
beneath a nameless tree,
feel the Presence—
already here, already whole—
You are the balance,
light that tips no scale,
stillness where all things drink and are restored?

Perhaps no book returns.
No story traces back.
But thirst rises anyway, like dawn,
and knowing floods the hollow—
aligning dust and star around a single center.

A child's voice: "What am I, dreaming? "
A heart seeks in its fragments
what already binds them whole.
And in that seeking, something older than words
breathes—
and all creation finds its poise.

Not proven. Not written.
Simply seen.

So the world begins again:
outward, through veils lifting,
slow unveiling of the real;
inward, through wordless depth,
where presence realized restores the whole.
And when the rivers meet—
we see: nothing was ever lost.

The Infinite was never touched by absence.
The Balance was always here.

MyKoul