You Are The Soul, You Are Love Poem by Mystic Qalandar

Beneath the golden sun's single eye,
a secret trembles—
a pulse in the heart of being,
a rhythm breathing within silence.

It is the bee's fragile rosary—
not of labor,
but of blessing:
a gift without asking,
a sweetness without price,
flowing softly through the unseen.

We, born of desire,
walk claiming what was never ours.
We speak the language of greed—
"This is my land, "
and ink our borders with blood.

"This is my heart, " we say,
"This, our nation, "
and exile the stranger
from the gate of belonging.

Upon that royal threshold
we place iron locks—
no key of theft can turn them.
This is our forgetting,
our self-woven veil.

"I am your highest lord, "
we whisper to ourselves,
as though the spirit
could rest in the palm of flesh.

We carve names
on bark and skin,
mistaking the wound
for love.

Such is the holiest illusion—
the hunger that crowns and consumes,
the breath we cannot share
because we call it mine.

When we see a seed of love
blooming wild in another soul,
we envy its brightness,
call it weed,
and tear it from the soil.

We are greedy spirits,
enslaving even the borrowed air,
expecting tribute
from the bees' unpriced honey.

Yet in the wind,
a hidden truth drifts:
nothing is yours;
all is on loan.

Every moment is a tenderness
from that vast, still source
that never speaks, never holds.

Can your hand contain the river's body?
It soothes your thirst,
then moves on.

Can you imprison the breath
that keeps you alive?
It enters, it leaves—
but never ceases.

How then shall you cage love,
that sacred fire
burning before all time?

That flame does not wane,
nor yield to cold—
the echo within your clay
was kindled by it.

I—
whatever I am—
am gift.

The earth beneath your feet,
the coursing blood,
the mother's milk,
the father's shadow—
each wrapped in the garment of grace.

We are rays of one light,
wanderers beneath
an unsetting sun.

To live is to become
a vessel of the unseen flow—
a reed through which
mercy breathes.

To walk awake,
hearing and seeing,
unafraid of the Speaker—
listening within the heart.

To behold the Beloved
not as confined,
but boundless, ever-living—
the One who gives you life
and holds the cosmos
in one endless breath.

From sun to flower to bee to man—
one continuing pulse of being.

And within that cosmic murmur,
a quiet whisper remains:

You need not know
the soul's why or how.
You are the soul—
the command of the Eternal.

You carry a body
lent by the Divine—
heart and vessel, inseparable.

You need not seek love.
You are already its gleam—
within that endless circle,
void of beginning, void of end—
forever giving, forever receiving,
returning at last
to the Silence
that breathes through all things.

—November,1,2025