#The Soul's Ultimate Manuscript#

[نورالدين بليغ]

#The Soul's Ultimate Manuscript#

This Book, which for the first time you behold,

Is born of Silence Eternal, where nothing is told,

No pen ever wrote it, no ink ever ran free,

It is You, in the skin of the parchment you see!

O mortal, this Volume is written without repeal,

With the Blood of Intention, not the action that's real.

Each stone you have placed in the edifice of your days,

Each sigh toward lost hope in the deep, winding ways,

Is the Shrieking Mirror that reveals your own lack,

Casting the weight of your history upon your track.

Chapters of Shadow and of Light

This Flesh-Mappemonde that endlessly weaves,

Is inscribed, day by day, with the Ink of your Dreams.

You will read it, no doubt, for the very first time,

Under the Sun's Light whose clear brilliance won't climb,

At the Court of All Justice where all counts are known,

What Horror for the Author to see what he'd thrown!

The forgotten Chapters that nothingness concealed,

Are not a mere poem where regret is revealed,

But the Incandescent Hearth beneath the age's ash.

Do you recall the Whispers of wisdom's pure flash?

That Fragile Intention that danced, a bright butterfly,

Before the Mud of Self-Interest made it sink and then die?

The step that you thought lay hidden in Night's dark shroud,

The Insult cast into the well, whose echo was bowed...

It is the Sea throwing back what it struggled to keep,

The Well rendering its stones, pulled out from the deep.

The Ordeal of the Final Count

The day of this reading is the Judgment Supreme,

Where the Scales of Conscience rise, not a golden gleam.

Your heart turns a Museum exposed to the light,

And your voice a snapped thread that trembles in fright.

Is it not a strange marvel, this Eternity's span,

Which is but an Exhibition of your Truth, O Man?

To be the Judge, the Accused, and the Sole Witness bright?

Your Book is the Docile Shadow that follows your sight,

Your Seed that sprouts forth from desire and blight,

The Witness of your Being who never denies what is right.

“Read then your Book!” The word is not literature's call,

But an Order to Stand beneath Censure's pall.

O Scribe, before time forever runs out!

Make it a Masterpiece, while your soul is the grout,

Let the Deed be the stanza, the heart be the page clean,

For this Awaited Book is You, here, now, foreseen.

May the Ending be Prayer, repentance, and turn,

Before the Seal of the Eternal the Galley does burn,

And it shall be said unto you:

“Sufficient is your own soul against you this Day as a Reckoner.”

#NOUR EDDINE BALIGH#