The Life Of A Mystic Poem by Mystic Qalandar

A mystic without the word of light,
without the secret music breathing
through the hidden strings of the soul,
is but an empty vessel—
hollow clay, echoing nothing.

A mystic who cannot clothe intuition
in the garments of silence and song
becomes a shadow—
a face without reflection,
a flame without warmth.

Without love turning within,
without peace unfolding in endless rhyme,
he is already departed—
a bird with bound wings,
a lute with broken strings.

The life of a mystic:
a parable seldom told,
a current veiled in symbols,
a trembling of stars.
He retreats into silence,
not building shrines of ritual,
nor scattering myths like dust,
but laying them down,
emptying his hands—
and in surrender, awakening into light.

The life of a mystic
is a living flame,
a fire fed not by fuel
but by the unseen breath of the Eternal.
How I mourn those who pass it by,
mistaking this wisdom for ash,
not knowing every unspoken word
is a perfect divine image,
a mirror of truth
flashing once in eternity.

The mystic is no mere man—
he is a lantern spilling fire
into countless unseen paths,
the witness of dawn
before the sky knows its color.
Like the bush that burned
yet never perished,
he stands unconsumed,
guiding wanderers through the dark.

The mystic is an opening door,
a well without a bottom.
Drink—and you will taste
what language cannot hold.
Listen—and you will hear
a silence deeper than stars.

The life of a mystic:
not an end, but a dissolving—
a return to the ocean of first light,
where fire and water, word and silence,
are all one.

—September 13,2025