When He Rises Poem by Mystic Qalandar

When He rises,
I walk beyond the sound of names.
The veils upon my face are not torn, but dissolved.
I stand alone—
a singularity of light,
illuminated by the sun that I am.

When, upon the black ocean of the heart,
the sun of the soul trembles—
a disk stamped with the seal of eternity—
the known world, the shoreline of perception,
catches fire.

He, whom no epistemology captures
save by the catastrophe of grace,
descends upon no mystic
but the one who has become a vacuum—
a crystalline absence.

When revelation dawns
on the horizon of my clay,
I behold the morning star within:
a clarity where all forms persist,
not in themselves,
but sustained in the amber of His gaze,
by His permission.

But when I coagulate in myself,
the dust of identity obscures the flame.
I become a blind man
groping for a face in a mirror of ash.
Then, from behind the mountain-range of form,
the sun lifts its golden brow—
and the radiance of Is-ness spreads.
In that interior dawn,
birds of meaning
begin their antiphons
on the branches of the unsaid.

To grasp this form is to kneel.
I bow not to the statue, but to the Sculptor.
I feel the warmth of my origin:
I was kneaded from the adamah of opposites—
light and shadow in perfect equilibrium—
so that choice could exist;
so I might learn to discern
the frequency of the All-Merciful
from the static of the adversary,
the geometry of guidance
from the formlessness of loss.

Then, a whisper from the abyssal heart:
"Corruption and piety are not places, but potentials.
Two gardens root in the soil of your will.
Whichever you water with your attention
becomes the landscape you inhabit."

And I understood the cipher:
"Success is a singularity for the one
who scours the inner mirror—
who polishes away the patina of want,
the soot of negligence—
until the inner sun reflects the Outer
without distortion."

And loss is a gravity for the one
who inters his own luminescence
in the tomb of form,
who entombs his truth
in the grave of a role,
who slaughters the she-camel of his own spirit—
the very sign of providence sent to him.

Then came the tremor—
the Tectonic Sorrow—
and my Lord, with a whisper,
shattered the pantheon within.
Each idol—
a cherished concept, a polished persona—
splintered.
I rose from the rubble of the personal,
and knew, with a knowledge that pre-exists mind:
the light I called mine—
the sudden knowledge,
the cascading wisdom,
the unsought revelation,
the unmerited grace—
are all Ayat—
signs pointing to the Signifier.

And from the nuclear heart—
the center that is everywhere—
a voice that was neither sound nor silence declared:
"Know thyself,
for in that knowledge, you know Me.
Thou art not other than My Name."

—October,26,2025