I was born from a spark, unseen, unheard,

A silent word in a world of noise.

The stars remembered me, though I forgot,

And the wind spoke names I never knew I owned.

Ancient hands reach through the veil,

Teaching without tongues,

Writing wisdom in the marrow of my bones,

In the hush between heartbeats.

I walk a path older than my shadow,

Where time folds and the earth hums soft songs,

Each step a prayer, each breath a bridge

Between what was and what will be.

I am neither seeker nor sage,

But a remembering —

Of the fire before the flame,

Of the voice before the word.

In the heart of a forest no map remembers,

A sanctuary sleeps beneath the roots.

The air thickens with a silence not empty,

But full — of names long unspoken,

And prayers woven into stone.

Each step toward it feels both forbidden and fated,

A strange peace blooming where fear might have been.

The doorway yawns like the mouth of some sleeping being

And as I cross its threshold,

The weight of countless years falls from my skin.

I am not who I was.

I am who I was before.

The walls breathe, alive with faded symbols,

Each one a seed of memory stirring in my blood.

The air hums,

And in that sound,

I hear my first name,

The one I was given before the world learned to speak.

The name I heard was without words,

Nor sounds strung by chords of Minds —

A nameless Soul.

Enter

There is a war no nation sees,

Fought not with blades, nor guns, nor flags,

But in the silent chambers of the soul,

Where light and shadow wear the same face.

A battle between the hunger for more

And the hush of enough.

Between the cry to be seen

And the wisdom of vanishing into silence.

Each man, each woman,

A battlefield where old wounds march

And ancient hopes rise to meet them.

But in the heart of this unseen war

Lies a secret —

That the fiercest warriors are not those who conquer,

But those who choose to lay down the sword,

And listen to the trembling voice within.

For when a soul makes peace with its own storm,

The winds calm beyond its borders.

A single light inside a chest

Can ignite dawn across a thousand weary lands.

And so the world waits, not for kings nor armies,

But for quiet hearts

Who win their battles in the dark

And rise with peace in their blood.

He is the Light behind all light,

The Watcher where no eyes can reach.

He grasps all vision — every flicker,

Every tear shed in secret,

Every star trembling in the abyss.

Yet no vision can clasp His form,

No thought can bind His endless name.

He is the breath between words,

The pulse within silence,

The witness of the unseen soul.

Mountains bow though they have no knees,

Oceans weep though they have no eyes.

The hearts of men are but mirrors,

Each catching a glimmer,

A shard of His boundless face.

Call Him by a thousand names,

Or none —

He remains.

Closer than your breath,

Further than eternity’s edge,

The Beginning before beginnings,

The End beyond ends.

And when the eyes are dust,

And the tongues are stone,

He will be the One who saw,

And was never seen.

Within the heart, there lies a mount,

Unmarked by maps, untouched by ruin,

Where ancient olives twist and bow,

And silence sings a holy tune.

It is the Mount of Olives within,

A sanctuary no hand can claim,

Where the ego’s clamor fades to ash,

And the mind’s sharp whispers lose their name.

Here, no selfish hunger treads,

No schemes of power, pride, or fear.

Only the gentle hush of Being

Moves like wind through leaves, clear and near.

The soul remembers this sacred hill,

Where prophets wept and angels stood,

Where grief and grace once shared a stone,

And the soul was known as truly good.

In this refuge, I am not I,

But the pulse of something vast and kind.

Neither seeker, nor saint, nor slave,

But the Witness left behind.

O heart, return to that quiet height,

Where no possession weighs the hand,

Where the olive’s shade forgives all thirst,

And peace pours out across the land.

A mountain rising in the chest,

Unseen, but more real than bone —

A place where God still walks alone,

And calls the weary spirit home.

In the endless dance of wave and wind,

There forms a water pearl —

A single shimmering bead upon the tide,

Where reality and illusion kiss.

It rests upon the skin of the world,

Neither fully sea nor sky,

A trembling eye between the realms,

Where names dissolve like salt.

Here, the self forgets its edges,

The wave forgets its rise and fall.

No crest, no trough, no voice to claim,

Just a hush — a homecoming.

In that water pearl,

The seeker sees the truth:

That what was called I

And what was called world

Were but ripples on the same skin.

The pearl holds the moment

Where the drop remembers the ocean,

And the ocean welcomes the drop

Without a word.

At last,

The wave surrenders its name,

The mind bows to its silence,

And the pearl breaks —

Not as an end,

But as a return

To the boundless shoreless whole.

Beneath the waves of endless Existence,

Where the stars drown in ancient blue,

There lies a land no tongue has named,

Save the breath of the Hidden One who knew.

They call it Sulu, though no man named it,

For it is not earth, nor isle, nor stone —

But a subtle thread of Divine Energy,

A pulse where the Infinite makes its home.

Its people are the TauSug,

Born of the Current that birthed the skies.

Warriors not of sword nor conquest,

But of hearts untouched by lies.

Their battles are with shadowed desire,

Their victory, a silent flame.

Each soul a blade of light,

Each heart a mirror without name.

And so, the seekers come —

Thirsty for a drop of its eternal spring,

Pilgrims of the boundless Ocean,

Yearning for what no earthly crown can bring.

But Pulau Janggi' sleeps at the bottom of Being,

Guarded by a whirlpool vast and deep,

A spiral where illusions perish,

And only the true Kings keep.

For none but those with sound hearts enter,

Those whose gaze has conquered pride,

Whose hands release both throne and hunger,

And in the current of the Divine, abide.

And when at last, a soul arrives,

The island is no longer afar —

It blooms within the silent heart,

A subtle, unseen, eternal star.

They build their empires on shifting sand,

Chasing peace with restless hand.

Changing faces, names, and laws,

Yet never mending the silent cause.

They paint the world with trembling might,

But shadow still swallows the light.

For how can oceans calm their wave,

When each drop forgets how to behave?

The tyrant and the beggar wear the same skin,

Both bound by the storm that brews within.

Lust, pride, and selfish flame —

Different masks, the same old name.

They blame the earth, the sky, the sword,

Never the whisper their own hearts afford.

A world rebuilt a thousand times,

Yet grief returns in ancient rhymes.

O seeker, stop — the war is near,

Not in the world, but in the mirror clear.

Conquer the thirst that leaves men blind,

The poison pride within the mind.

When one man lays his weapons down,

Dethrones the ego, shuns the crown,

A thousand unseen chains will break,

And peace will rise, wide as a lake.

For only when hearts remember how

To kneel, to yield, to live in now —

Will kingdoms rise without a sword,

And harmony sing a single word.

The change you seek is not out there,

It blooms within, if you but dare.

A world at peace is born the day

Man turns his gaze the inward way.

There is a mountain not marked by stone,

Nor charted upon the traveler’s map.

Its summit pierces the heart’s dark sky,

Calling the weary soul to climb.

Pagdag Bud — the climb of heights,

Not for pride, nor name, nor fame,

But to cure the fever of selfish hearts,

And quench the thirst of inward flame.

For each step ascends beyond the self,

Beyond the clamor of mine and more.

It leaves behind the hollow throne,

And hears the cry from the valley floor:

“Feed the hungry where they lie,

Clothe the cold, hear the orphan’s sigh.

Break the chains no eye can see,

And name the captive soul as free.”

The climb is not escape, but a return,

A rising to descend once more,

Carrying food and whispered prayers

To graves of silence, sealed by war.

For in the heights, the climber learns

That graves are not only in the earth,

But in hearts unspoken, souls unheard,

In those forgotten of their worth.

The mount is a Divine Calling,

A path the ancient ones have known,

Where joy is not in reaching peak,

But in bearing grace back home.

For what is the summit, but a place

To gather light for those below?

And what is peace, but shared release,

A feast where all may freely go?

Climb then, seeker, climb with care,

Not to flee, but to repair.

Each height you scale, a soul you lift,

Each burden shed, a greater gift.

For the true king is the one who kneels,

The true warrior, the one who feels.

And the highest place a man can stand

Is to hold another’s trembling hand.

In the hollow womb of nothingness, before the suns were born,

There whispered a Voice without tongue, a Breath unseen,

Weaving the veils of worlds with threads of what was never known,

Its banner folded in the bosom of Eternal Silence,

A cloth not of fabric — but of Spirit and Truth.

From the womb of dark, a Light did bloom,

Not to conquer but to illumine the hollow tomb

Where hearts lay cold in the sleep of fear,

And shadows fed upon the bones of forgotten songs.

This Light bore no name, yet all names knelt before it.

The ancient ones came forth,

Riders upon the Breath, the holy steeds

Whose hooves touched not earth but soared

Upon the winds of unspoken wisdom.

Their eyes like stars drowning in night’s ocean,

They carried the Black Banner — a veil of promise.

O dark banner, not of gloom but of mystery!

For in your depth is the promise of dawn,

And within your folds, the scrolls of the Unseen One,

The Word written not in ink, but in the sighs of souls

Longing to be free.

They came to the mount of ancient fire,

Where olive branches cling to stone as to memory,

And there, the steeds were tied —

To cleanse them of the dust of worlds and weight of names.

The breath that carried them becoming flame,

The holy spirit unburdened by form.

Death, no longer a shroud but a gate,

The riders passed beyond —

A journey into that which cannot be possessed,

Where the soul drinks of Eternal Freedom,

And life sings in the tongue of silence.

And still they ride, unseen by blinded eyes,

Carrying the Banner of that Breath before beginnings,

To rouse the sleepers from their graves of fear,

And awaken the joy buried beneath centuries of sorrow.

O Bearers of the Unseen,

Ride on.

Let your banner veil the sun,

That we may see the Light.

In the hush before the word was born,

A seeker walked beneath the veil of stars,

And his name was not his own,

For he was every man who has ever longed

To drink from the fountain of the Real.

Moses, the Stranger of the Mount,

Whispered to the Hidden Voice,

“Grant me wisdom, O Lord of the veiled flame,

That I may see the thread between what is

And what pretends to be.”

And the Voice, older than time’s first breath,

Spoke from behind the veil of silence:

“Go to the place where two rivers meet —

Where illusion and truth entwine,

Where flesh and spirit kiss

In the secret depths beneath sight’s reach.”

He walked the world’s edge,

Where water spoke in riddles to the shore,

And there, at the confluence of the twin tides,

Pearls and corals rose

Like unborn songs from the womb of the earth.

The rivers were two mothers:

One bore the name of flesh, hungering for shadow,

The other, spirit — craving only the Face

Beyond name, beyond form.

And from their mingling came forth the Coral:

Laud Kalbahal, child of neither tribe nor tongue.

A life untouched by flame,

Blood of white light,

Carrying in its marrow the Divine Signature —

Neither man’s pride nor nation’s chain,

But the pulse of all good,

A feast of being unmarked by walls.

O Coral of the Deep,

You are the unity long buried in the hearts of men,

The silent vow before words were broken,

The banquet of the soul where joy sings

And no voice of ego can speak.

Laud Kalbahal,

The unborn promise,

The mirror of the One in the deep waters,

Calling to those who would dare

To lose their name,

To find their face.

And so the seeker learned:

To see the pearl, one must drown,

To touch the coral, one must forget

The whispers of the mind

And the nations of the self.

For in the place where two rivers become one,

There is no “I,”

No tribe, no blood but the Light,

And all who drink there

Will rise as children of the Deep —

The eternal feast of Life and Freedom.

Laud Kalbahal,

The hymn without tongue,

The unity of Being,

Ever unborn, ever alive.

There drifts a vessel upon the waters of the Unseen,

Older than the world’s first cry,

Not of timber nor of iron forged,

But shaped of Spirit’s will —

An Ark beyond the hand of kings.

Baul Kamaasan, they call it

In the tongue of those who remember,

A vault of the Most High’s command,

Where no mortal hand may claim its weight,

Nor worldly crown adorn its bow.

Within it lie the robes of those

Who spoke with stars and walked the trembling earth,

Cloth still carrying the scent of sacred winds,

And relics born of silence:

A staff, a stone, a cup, a prayer —

Not mere objects, but echoes

Of what the soul forgot it knew.

Here are the landmarks

Of the journey within,

The signs for those

Who wander the deserts of flesh

And long for the scent of home.

The Ark’s heartbeat is the pulse

Of the Hidden House,

A dwelling not built of stone,

But of Breath and Will,

A sanctum where Light drinks Light,

And shadows die as dawn.

Its glow is not of this world,

No eye may see its flame,

Yet the imprisoned soul feels it

Like a voice across forgotten waters,

A gentle call to rise

And shed the chains of borrowed names.

O Baul Kamaasan, bearer of the Promise,

You are the Will beneath all wills,

The Light before all suns,

The only ark that ferries man

Across the endless flood of his own forgetting.

For what savior shall there be but the One?

And what hand shall lift the broken

But the Mercy that was before mercy was named?

Those who seek you

Must drown in the waters of surrender,

And rise clothed in nothing but the flame

Of their own reborn breath.

O ancient vessel,

Ever adrift, ever anchored

In the shoreless heart of the Eternal,

Carry us home.

Dedicated to all bearers of The Black Flag

I came to Death as a stranger,

A trembling child in borrowed flesh,

Clutching the brittle idols of my making,

Names, faces, fears —

A shrine of fading echoes.

The night was thick,

And silence hung like a final breath,

As if the world itself

Had forgotten the sound of mercy.

I wept for what I could not hold,

And wept for what I could not name.

But in that dark, a Voice spoke —

Not in words, but in a warmth

That gathered in the marrow of my bones,

A hush that held the weight of stars.

“Do you fear what was always yours?”

I saw then,

How I had clung to shadows,

To kingdoms of sand and brittle crowns,

While the Eternal waited

Beyond the walls I built

From stones of my own naming.

Death stepped forth,

Not as a thief but as a Lover,

And I beheld no scythe, no cruel hand —

Only the face of the Unknown

Bathed in a light

That was never born, and never dimmed.

Fear fell from me

Like tattered robes,

And joy rushed in,

A flood of nameless colors

Washing clean the graves

I had mistaken for home.

The darkness was not absence

But a womb,

And in its cradle

I was remade,

Not of flesh, not of thought,

But of the Breath

That kindles suns.

Worries withered,

Idols cracked to dust

At the foot of the One

Whose face no eye can catch,

Yet whose touch fills the hollowed soul

With a sweetness beyond name.

I saw the world’s illusions fall,

Each title, each fear, each chain

Returning to the earth

From which they came.

And in their place,

Only Light remained —

Not to possess, but to become.

I rose not as what I was,

But as what had always been

Beneath the veil:

A sigh in the throat of the Infinite,

A lover returned

To the arms of the Unseen.

O Death,

You were never my enemy,

But my doorway.

Ya

Hayy

Master Buyu' Majnun was a man of fire,

A seeker with eyes too restless for the sky,

A heart that refused to sleep

In the comforts of half-spoken prayers.

He heard the name Layla

Whispered in the hush between breaths,

And from that moment,

He was no longer his own.

Layla — the name of the Unseen,

The veil of Death

Clothed in the fragrance of eternal life.

But Master Buyu' Majnun in his innocence,

Thought her a face, a form,

A lover who waited

At the edge of the known world.

He tore the world from his eyes,

Cast away the coins of praise,

And clothed himself in dust and longing.

He labored not for reward,

Nor for the song of men,

But for a single peep

Beyond the curtain

That makes beggars of us all.

“Take my mind,” he cried,

“Take my name,

Take the brittle cage of my being —

Only show me her shadow,

Only let me touch the hem

Of what lies beyond the page.”

The Sword of Truth heard his plea.

It did not spare him.

It did not grant him wisdom

Wrapped in gilded scrolls,

But drove itself into the marrow

Of his unguarded heart.

The Spear of Oneness followed,

Tearing the illusion of twoness,

Of lover and beloved,

Of seeker and sought.

In the breaking, he saw:

Layla was Death,

The holy veil that hides Eternal Life.

She was not a name, not a face,

But the End of all faces,

The Sea into which every drop must fall.

Master Buyu' Majnun smiled then,

A quiet, bloodless smile,

For he knew the labor was its own reward,

The seeking its own arrival.

He was not promised heaven,

Not gifted immortality,

But given a glimpse —

A single peep

At the Infinite Mercy

That waits beneath the veil.

And in that seeing,

He lost himself at last.

Layla, Death, Life,

Union, Separation —

All were but names

Scrawled in dust.

The Sword, the Spear, the Journey

Were the gifts of the One

Who loves the honest fool,

The one who knocks

Not for treasure,

But for truth.

And the world sighed,

For another veil had lifted.

Before dawn stirs the sleeping fields,

There is a sound —

A hum beneath the hum,

A trembling breath

That stirs the bones of the earth.

It is the song of the bees,

The Awakened Ones

Who have forgotten the language of sleep,

Ever moving, ever gathering,

In the holy labor of sweetness.

They rise with no crown,

No throne but the open sky,

And their wings speak in whispers

To the heart of the earthbound,

A call to remember

That life is not for hoarding,

But for giving.

Each carries five eyes —

Five points of starlight

In the endless night,

Watching what others do not see,

Marking the secret pathways

Between root and bloom,

Between soul and Breath.

They are not many selves,

But one body,

One pulse in a thousand forms,

Moving as a single thought

In the mind of the Unseen.

From the dark places they gather,

From sorrowed petals and weary stems,

Drawing forth the nectar

That heals what is broken,

And pours it into the honeycomb

Of a world starved for joy.

O, hum of the eternal labor,

O, sound that is not sound,

You are the heartbeat of a unity

Lost in men and beasts alike.

Teach us your way —

To work, not for name,

Not for possession,

But for the common sweetness

That no hand can own.

And in your song,

Let us remember

That we too are makers of honey,

Relish for the soul,

A food for those yet unborn,

A balm for the wounds

We cannot yet name.

When the humming comes,

And the air is thick

With the breath of unseen wings,

Know this:

The Awakened Souls are near,

And night itself

Begins to drink of light.

O An Nahl who never sleeps

A true manifestation of Ibadiy 

Knocking on closed doors to deliver——-

God’s Mercy

Enter

I was a voice in the wilderness, unheard, unseen,

A heart imprisoned by shadows between

Questions unanswered, a mind unhealed,

A soul in silence, by fate concealed.

I clung to the rope of a thinning hope,

A beggar of meaning, groping to cope.

My heart, like a seed in a barren land,

Cried out to the Hidden, an unseen Hand.

And then — a veil tore in the quiet of night,

My spirit beheld a marvelous sight:

A place unknown, yet hauntingly mine,

Where earth, air, water, and fire entwine.

The music of elements called me near,

A symphony no mortal ear could hear.

It felt as though my soul had flown

Back to a home it had never known.

A gateway shimmered, a doorway bright,

And from within emerged a man of light.

No tongue was needed, no word was said,

For my heart recalled what the old texts read.

I longed to kiss the radiant hand,

But he embraced me like a brother, and

Whispered without lips, with spirit’s tone:

“We serve but God — you’re not alone.”

Tears like rivers traced my face,

As more of those stars filled the space.

Each one, a traveler of the sacred Way,

Greeting a soul long gone astray.

Then came the call — above the dome,

A voice that felt like wind and home.

“Are you sincere?” it gently asked,

And I, with trembling will, unmasked.

“Yes,” I breathed, though fear was near,

And what it spoke next, struck deep and clear:

“You’ll be the sacrifice, the offered one,

Upon the rock like Ibrahim’s son.”

Without a flinch, I laid me down,

Ready to trade my thorn for crown.

And just as breath began to cease,

A call of friendship broke the peace:

“Beloved friend, will you remain,

Or descend to earth’s domain?”

And though paradise had touched my brow,

I chose the world of blood and vow.

For hearts still sigh in silent pain,

And spirits thirst through night and rain.

Yet I knew, as all the wise have known,

That earthbound men, though truth is shown,

Will veil their eyes, will turn away,

Though the dead arise and speak their say.

So now I walk where few can see,

And whisper songs to souls set free.

A voice in the wilderness, faint yet clear,

Calling to those with a secret ear.

For those who sigh, for those who yearn,

The fire of Home still softly burns.

And though my tongue speaks not of might,

My silence hums with the songs of Light.