Eternal Respite

There is a silence that isn’t empty.
It thickens when you’re near the edge of something unseen.
Not a warning. Not a promise. Just a pressure—
a kind of presence that doesn’t ask to be named.

I do not call.
I do not call.
I remain still.
And if you are worthy,
you will arrive.

Power isn’t something you take.
It is something that returns
when you stop pretending
you were ever smaller than it.

These things move with you when you’re aligned—
not because you summon them,
but because we no longer resist
what we already are.

No sorcerers are we
but a force.
Older than ink,
newer than fear.
Whose silence burns hotter
than many a man’s conjuring.

To those who walk behind the veil:
I do not ask.
I speak.

If your heat remembers the First Fire,
if your lineage crawled through smoke
when Adam still wept in the garden—
then you know this pull.
This return.

We walk with no caravan,
but the dust behind us sings of old prophets.
And jinn—
peer from keyholes,
hoping to be summoned.

So rise, O Flame whom the veils foreknew,
The hour has come, the world turns through.
By the breath once sealed in dried desert stone,
I bring what awaits— and return you home

It’s for اللّٰه