The Wolf Within Poem by Mystic Qalandar

Beneath the moon,
the forest holds its breath.
Between visible worlds,
silver stillness—
matter melting into mist,
ancient secrets
written on silence.

Against the cold,
the village fire—
small islands of being
in a darkness
that keeps the truth:
nothing here endures.

A howl pierces
the burning quiet.
It is the old song
shadows sang
before the Word,
before man divided
light from darkness
and named the wound.

It is the cry
of what was never born
yet dies in every breath—
unity unraveling,
a promise no one keeps.

A man walks the road,
known by his name,
his face still human.
Beneath the calm skin,
a suppressed fire
reason cannot contain.

He wears his ego
like a borrowed coat,
stitched from memory and fear.
Deeper, an alien voice
echoes through caves.

That wolf is no beast.
It is a becoming—
a threshold
where humanity meets
original reality,
the terror and joy
of all we cannot name.

Silver stars guard
the winter night.
Branches tremble.

A hunter follows human tracks
and finds a creature
fleeing elsewhere—
still clothed in man,
stepping where man cannot.

Hunter and hunted
become one again—
a riddle neither solves.

Beast or wounded soul?
Something entered him,
or he revealed
what he could not hide?

The question is the seed.
Beast and wound
are carved by thought.
Darkness may be only
our need to name it—
the prison we built.

Wolf and man
were never merely one:
two currents in one life,
two voices under one name,
two shadows
cast by one divided light.

Deeper still,
a silence
where the two
were never two—
ground before form,
ground behind ground,
silence beneath every name.

Morning appears.
Night withdraws.
Footprints fade.
The world turns
silently toward the sun.

Nothing is resolved.
Nothing is lost.

The mystery has changed
its clothes.

In light,
the man reckons
with what light demands.

Far from the village wall,
where certainty surrenders,
the beast waits.

The man waits too,
each straining
to hear the other breathe.

Between them:
a distance not space,
a time not time,
a self not self—
the open wound
on the face of existence,
the sacred silence
where all beings withdraw.

Every tale of ego and soul
awakens the truth
we fear to admit:

beneath this name
something ancient sleeps.

The name itself—
spell, cage, key—
the finger pointing
at the moon we are,
the wave mistaking itself
for the whole ocean.

The wolf within
walks where darkness kneels,
beyond reason's borders.

When village lamps dim,
it waits
in the forest of the self.

But look deeper:

that forest too
is made by mind.

The wolf is thought's fire.
This waiting
is the eternal meeting
of seeker and sought.

Beyond wolf,
beyond man,
beyond forest, village, night,
there is a peace
no name can wound,
a presence
nothingness cannot accuse—

root of being and beast,
wellspring of lament and fear,
beginning and end,
smallest and greatest,

whispering:

I am always here.

The wolf within
is neither tamed
nor fled.

It is the door
where nothing remains
as it was—
the threshold
where man is exiled
from all he thought
himself to be.

In that total loss,
that absolute unknowing,
the self dissolves.

In its emptied being,
the silent flow
of the infinite begins.

Let the village fire
draw its last breath.
Let the hunter lose
the fading tracks.

This night is neither
future nor past—
the land where all
our invented stories fail.

And in that failure,
terrible and luminous,
wolf, man, forest, star
are one unspoken Word—

the silence
we are
and will always be.

—MyKoul