The Streams Of Mercy Poem by Mystic Qalandar

A path of dust—older than dust—
Kashmir's valley breathing still;
The clay remembers gentle feet,
And water hums its secret hymn.

At dusk, the elders crossed the fields,
Their faces warmed by evening's flame;
Children waited in the hush of doors,
Holding bowls of light and reverence.

Hands met water, hearts met grace—
The world was washed, not only feet.
Mothers' palms, fragrant with years,
Traced blessings through the quiet air.

Each act a sigh of wordless prayer,
A merging of souls, a mirror bright;
The Master's teaching flowed unseen,
Where love became the law of breath.

O Source of what we are and serve,
Awaken that forgotten art—
To cleanse the dust of one another,
To heal the pulse worn thin by time.

Where rivers blend, no name remains,
Only the shimmer of oneness felt;
Through mercy's current peace descends,
Still as dawn upon the heart.

What gift endures but kindness pure,
What deed outshines an offered hand?
Let one act kindle the darkened world—
And night itself will kneel in light.

We walk because You walked before,
Learning Your silence, Your compassion;
In every face Your secret dwells,
In every hand Your prayer continues.

Let the ancient rite return again—
At every threshold, every shore;
Where feet are cleansed in living streams,
And hearts are freed of otherness.

Then may the world fall still and whole,
Folded within Your boundless peace;
When dust and spirit intertwine,
No one afar, no one apart—
For love, the Eternal Guest, remains.

—October,21,2025