The Invisible Tremor Poem by Mystic Qalandar

When I cast a fragment of clay
across stillness,
it is not mine—
but the dust of His breath
dancing upon the water.

I see it skip—its brief laughter—
rings widening like time uncoiling,
each ripple murmuring Kun fayakun.

Beneath what sight can grasp,
another covenant stirs:
currents unseen carry remembrance,
echoing through the body of the One Sea.

The shard falls, breaks, and is taken—
its descent a prayer,
its resting a silent birth.

Air trembles as if the invisible sighs
through form;
the clay remembers its origin—
once burning bright
in the kiln of His will.

Even the fall is worship
when none truly falls,
only the returning
of what always belonged.

So too with my smallest acts—
every glance, every breath,
every forgotten kindness—
a pebble cast into the mirror of being.

I see ripples.
He sees the ocean remembering itself.

The world sways with my motion,
stars tilt their gaze imperceptibly,
and hearts unknown awaken
to a call I never voiced.

Each act is a secret invocation—
each motion, a cipher of the Real.
No hand is separate from the wave,
no thrower from what is thrown.

All tremor is His tremor,
all touch, His pulse in matter.

When the pond stills again—
its surface pure as first creation—
I am drawn inward,
where every ripple folds back
into the Beloved's breath.

There, I hear only silence—
and yet in that silence,
the Beloved moves through all.

—October 6,2025