The Guitar Of Alast Poem by Mystic Qalandar

My guitar—soul cradle, stripped of strings—
sheds splinters of silence into the void.
Its hollow chest, a cavern of deep questions,
echoes ghosts of songs once unvoiced.

Molten zinc, forged in despair's embrace,
seals the tympanum of my heart—
a quiet sentinel against the world's dull din,
a shield that keeps my spirit apart.

O Divine Listener, whose mercy flows
through every fracture of this shattered frame,
touch with hands eternal, presence clear;
heal the hidden fault that feeds the flame.

Let your soft alchemy of grace
turn silent void to tones of yearning bright.
Draw near; reveal within my soul's deep scroll
the covenant of Alast's endless light—
before time's measure came to be,
when breath first birthed questions yet unseen.

Now comes the softening—not sound, but being.
The wood, bathed in primal light, remembers.
It drinks the glow, and from the empty space
arises Alast's ancient timbres.

I sit entranced—no player, only path—
folded deep into the song that plays.
This sacred hymn: each string a soul, each note
a world where sound in silence sways.

A radiant flow—no river, but pure stream—
binding star with dust, quest with rest.
One vibration in both hollow and whole,
whispering wordless truth at its best:
One.

— October,23,2025