What We Call An Ending Poem by Mystic Qalandar

What we call an ending
is only a delayed beginning—
a step already taken
toward the Perfect.
A half-read book:
an ancient script,
its first and final leaves missing;
or desert winds
unwriting old tracks
to draw new paths
in a listening void.
The thinning crescent,
remembering its fullness;
the sun, briefly veiled,
gathering secret fire
to return as flame.
Wisdom once known,
veiled in dust
and trembling webs;
a celestial envoy,
resting between breaths
of an endless errand.
When every web is woven,
when rapture loosens into echo,
each ending opens as origin—
a turning back
into the Undying.
Beyond death's soft veil,
the caravan still moves.
For at light's first murmur,
the new day was never coming—
it was already here.

—December,21,2025