“We are modern, polished, digital, yet we still tremble at the unseen, carrying a wild, ancient forest locked inside the ribcage.”

It does not arrive with a thunderclap
or the heralded trumpet of a fallen empire.
It is a quiet vibration in the marrow,
a sudden theft of oxygen
in the middle of a fluorescent aisle,
between the cereal boxes and the bleached tiles.

We thought we had paved over the gods,
mapped the wilderness into grids,
exiled the hoof-beat and the horn
to the dusty shelves of leather-bound myths.
But the wild did not vanish;
it simply migrated inward.

Now, it hides in the architecture of the synapse,
a surviving remnant of the deep wood,
the last vestige of a pantheon
that refused to be forgotten.

When the heart begins its frantic drumming,
it is not a glitch of the chemistry,
but the echo of a scream
thrown across a prehistoric valley.
It is Pan, stripped of his pipes and goatskin,
still haunting the thickets of the subconscious,
reminding the city-dweller
that they are still made of salt and fear.

We are modern, polished, digital,
yet we still tremble at the unseen,
carrying a wild, ancient forest
locked inside the ribcage,
waiting for the wind to shift
and the old god to shout.

Panic strikes the heart,
The modern mind is baffled,
Pan still loves a prank.