The Silent Proprietor Poem by Mystic Qalandar

Can tenants claim the House of Being?
The Owner utters no doctrine—
His truth unspoken,
His act concealed in the Unseen.

No name marks the threshold
of the heart's sanctuary.
Tenants drift like passing air—
dust on the sill of form,
borrowed shadows called real.

They rearrange the veils of attributes,
rename the chambers of desire,
proclaim eternity in extinction's echo.

Yet the House inhales Light
and exhales shadow at dawn—
where night dissolves
in the eye of certainty.

The Owner abides by the lattice—
neither seeker nor sought.
He simply is.

When the lower self rehearses illusion—
forms traced by the Command,
gestures of self-begotten rule—
tenants multiply like veils.
But in a house made prosperous by silence,
the House unveils itself.
No witness. No appearing.

Tenants scar the walls with idols,
stamp the floor with the commanding soul.
Still, the House reweaves itself
in continual becoming—
not revolt, but quiet correction—
revealing to her the life she forgot.

On veiled evenings she unfolds the letters—
silence eclipsing tongue,
patterns awaiting the world between.
Letters fall back into One.

Who sinks into inward hearing
claims no prize but erasure—
Truth tasted as recognition.

In quiet, the Owner draws near—
not by distance,
but by the falling away of claim.

Each lattice sealed—no triumph, only union—
outer fragments recalling
their hidden design.

By sunset the House becomes mercy.
Veils gather,
shielding against the tempter's wind.

Silence remains—
not void,
not absence—
but Witness.

No tenant speaks.
No mask survives.

The Owner:
not sought.
not veiled.
Essence.

—February,13,2026