The Soul forge Chronicles

 

The Soul forge Chronicles

A Journey of the Soul Through Flame, Time, and Truth

The Soul forge Chronicles is an epic poetic saga tracing the soul’s journey from divine origin to earthly entrapment and back to transcendence. Set across 5,000 years of human history, myth, and inner evolution, it explores the great questions of existence—Who are we? Why do we suffer? Where is the divine?

Through cantos rich in symbolism, philosophy, and spiritual depth, the saga blends ancient wisdom and modern reflection. It draws from all great traditions—Hinduism, Christianity, Islam, Buddhism, and beyond—yet speaks with one unified voice: the voice of the soul seeking its Source.

Each book is a step in the alchemical transformation of the self:

• Descent into illusion, ego, and chaos

• Awakening through trial, remembrance, and fire

• Return to the eternal light, reborn and refined

This is not just poetry—it is a map for the inner traveler, a myth reborn for our age.

JAYAN MK 

Book I

 The First Flame

Canto	Title	Theme
I	The Descent	The soul’s fall from the divine realm
II	Clay Awakens	Birth of form, consciousness stirs
III	The Songless Tongue	Language, memory, and loss
IV	Fire and Hunger	First survival, fear, the shadow born
V	The Whisper of Gods	Earliest religion, sky and stone
VI	Blood on the Dust	First war, death, moral confusion
VII	The Mirror’s Lie	Ego awakens, illusion of self
VIII	The Watchers Weep	Celestial beings observing mankind
IX	The Pathless One	The soul forgets its way home
X	The Forge Begins	Earth becomes the anvil of purification

Canto I – The Descent

In silence swam the unborn soul, Beyond the dust, beyond the whole — No name, breathless, no flesh, fireless, Unshaped by birth, untouched by death. Then came the Word, a crack, a flare, A pulse across the dreaming air. "Go forth," it said, "and know the pain, And walk the world, and burn again." From realms of light through cosmic tide, The soul was hurled with none to guide. Through iron halls and furnace breath, To lands of hunger, fear, and death. It woke in clay, in dust and bone, A god inside, yet all alone. It screamed, but none could name the cry — Stars were shy, for speech was young No whisper in the wind, no stir within the trees, No echo sang, no watcher there. The soul began its march unknown, A stranger in a flesh-made throne. With every step, the heavens dimmed, The ancient fire flickered, thinned. It clothed itself in blood and skin, And thus began the war within. The earth was young, its crust still raw, Its skies would break, its beasts would claw. Yet in that place, the forge was set — Where heaven’s flame and hunger met. The gods stood far, behind the veil, To watch if light or dark would fail. They placed no chains, but none could flee, The fate of soul was "Come and see." No sword was drawn, no banner raised, No path was clear, no rite was praised. The soul must burn to find its shape, In every joy, in each escape. So down it came, a whisper’s weight, To walk the fields of time and fate. And thus begins the tale untold — Of souls once light, now forged in gold.

Canto II – Clay Awakens

The clay grew warm with breath inside,
The bones took shape where stars had died.
The soul now yoked to limb and lung,
In silence deep, its song unsung.

It blinked beneath the sun’s first gaze,
A new born caught in time’s thick haze.
It knew not hunger, knew not fear,
Yet sensed that something dark drew near.

The wind cut sharp, the stones held cold,
The earth indifferent, raw, and old.
It learned to crawl through thorn and dust,
To trust no voice, and trust in none.

It gazed into the water’s skin,
To glimpse a world both out and in.
The face it saw—a hollow spark,
A question framed within the dark.

What am I now? What force commands?
Why fire within these trembling hands?
It tried to speak, the words were lost,
Just breath and sound, like winds that crossed.

But step by step, it came to know,
That clay can move, and blood can grow.
And though it bore a skin like veil,
A deeper fire burned within.

It stood at last on shaking feet,
With sky above and stone beneath.
And in that stance, the forge was stirred —
The first true thought, the first word shaped.

A name not spoken, but begun,
Like morning carved out from the sun.
The soul, though bound by limb and law,
Had glimpsed itself—and stood in awe.

 Canto III – The Songless Tongue

It tried to speak, but air was dumb,
No syllable from throat would come.
The mouth took shape, the breath turned warm
But words had yet to find their form.

The beasts would growl, the birds would cry,
The winds would moan, the trees would sigh.
But none could say what burned inside,
What loss it felt, or where to hide.

Its hands would paint in mud and blood,
Its thoughts would stir in fire and flood.
A language made of rock and fire,
Of hunger, rhythm, dream, desire.

It carved in bone, it scratched in stone,
A ghost of speech, a myth unknown.
It howled beneath the moon’s cold stare,
Yet found no ear, no kindred there.

The stars looked on with patient grace,
They’d seen this grief in every race.
For speech must rise through ache and flame,
And find in loss a sacred name.

The soul pressed on through ache and storm,
Each sound it shaped, each gesture born —
A step toward thought, a path to truth,
The broken tongue of godlike youth.

It whispered names into the fire,
It cried to rocks with deep desire.
Each echo built a bridge unknown,
To someday speak, and not alone.

Thus language bloomed like dusk-lit rose,
Through pain, it claimed the gift it chose:
To name the world, to share the flame,
To give each soul a song, a name.

 

Canto IV – The Fire makers

Then gathered they, the kindred few,
Whose breath like sparks through forests flew.
By gesture first, and glance, and flame,
They forged the bonds and gave things name.

Around the blaze their tales would rise,
As shadows danced beneath the skies.
They hunted stars with sharpened stones,
And built their myths from ash and bones.

The fire they lit was not just heat,
But heart and hearth, where soul could meet.
They shaped the dark with flame-born sight,
And carved the day into the night.

In rhythm rose the chant, the song,
A spell to grant the weak their strength.
And from their breath a culture stirred —
The soul was clothed in flame and word.

They tamed the beasts, they named the wind,
They dreamed of gods, of guilt and sin.
They marked the heavens, tracked the rains,
And stitched their thoughts to stone and chains.

And thus the age of fire began,
With mind and myth remaking man.
Not beast, not god — a thing between,
A spark that dared reshape the seen.

The soul, once lost in clay and bone,
Now found it did not walk alone.
Through fire, through tribe, through common breath,
It learned of love, and war, and death.

Canto V – The First Gods

In awe they knelt before the storm,
The fire, the tree, the beastly form.
For all unknown they sought to name,
And wrapped their fears in sacred flame.

A voice in thunder, wind, or wave —
They heard in each the lord and grave.
And so from dream and dread combined,
The gods were born within the mind.

They crowned the sun, they praised the rain,
They offered blood to end their pain.
To stars they sent their whispered pleas,
To roots they bowed with bended knees.

Each mountain high, each ocean deep,
Held spirits ancient, dark, or sweet.
And every storm that lashed the land,
Was seen to rise from some god's hand.

They carved their deities in stone,
In firelight shapes, in sacred bone.
They sang of wrath, they danced for grace,
They feared the gods they dared embrace.

And yet, within this trembling start,
Was truth that burned inside the heart:
The gods they made in sky and sea,
Were echoes of what they could be.

For every thunder spoke their might,
Each moon was hung for soul’s insight.
The gods were masks, reflections vast,
Of futures buried in the past.

Thus rose the pantheon of flame,
Where each soul fed the sacred name.
And in their myths they found a way,
To face the dark and shape the day.

So spread the word, the rite, the shrine,
From fire to stone, from root to sign.
And thus the world of spirit grew,
A mirrored world the soul once knew.

 

Canto VII – The Mirror’s Lie

It found a face within the stream,
A mask that danced within a dream.
The soul, once flame, now saw its skin —
A shape it thought was truth within.

It spoke its name and made it real,
Declared what thought and eye could feel.
But in the glass, the truth was cracked,
A lie within the self compact.

It built a wall of “mine” and “me,”
And forged a world of vanity.
The voice within grew faint and small,
As mirrors lined the ego’s hall.

What once had burned in starlit flight,
Now fought for gold, for power, for right.
The “I” became a cage of pride,
The soul forgot what dwelled inside.

Yet dreams would break the mirror’s sheen,
In cracks were glimpses of the seen —
Of something vast beyond the name,
A breath that burned without a flame.

And thus began the longest war,
Not fought with blade, but ego’s scar.
To peel the mask and find beneath,
A light that sleeps beyond belief.

 

Canto VIII – The Watchers Weep

Beyond the veil of earthly fate,
The Watchers sat in silent state.
They bore no crown, they held no rod,
But served the flame, the breath of God.

They saw the sparks fall into clay,
And wept as light was cast away.
For every birth that found its name,
Would walk through storm and grief and flame.

They sang no songs, they made no sound,
Yet in their gaze the soul was found.
They saw the rise, they watched the fall,
They knew the fear inside us all.

And when we cursed the skies above,
They offered silence filled with love.
They did not guide, nor show the path,
For learning came through fire and wrath.

Yet when a soul, through pain, would rise,
And tear the veil from clouded eyes,
The Watchers wept with joy anew,
To see the soul remember true.

 

Canto IX – The Pathless One

The soul once bright, now wandered blind,
No compass left, no path to find.
It chased the echoes of its grace,
In every stranger’s hollow face.

It walked through war, through gold and sin,
Through every loss that burned within.
The road it walked was paved with bone,
Yet in its cry was not alone.

For every soul had lost its thread,
Had drunk from Lethe’s stream and bled.
The stars had vanished from the skies,
And only smoke met searching eyes.

Yet in the dark, a voice remained —
A whisper from the soul unchained.
It said, “Though blind, you still can feel.
The truth you lost is always real.”

No prophet came, no map was drawn,
But dawn would break through every dawn.
And though the world was vast and wide,
The soul was never cast aside.

 

Canto X – The Forge Begins

And so it stood on stone and flame,
The soul with neither pride nor name.
It shed the masks, the lies, the lore,
And stepped through life's most sacred door.

The world was fire, not to consume,
But heat the gold and purge the gloom.
Each wound a bell, each tear a song,
Each scar a sign of growing strong.

The forge was earth, the anvil: fate,
Where time and test would concentrate.
Each soul, a sword not yet revealed,
Must pass through fire to be healed.

No god would save, no devil bind,
The trial was of one’s own mind.
And those who dared to stand alone,
Would find the soul become the stone.

And so begins the truest climb —
Not out of place, but out of time.
Where spirit, shaped by ash and flame,
Returns at last to light’s pure name.

  

 

Book II

The Iron Pilgrimage

 

 

 

Canto	Title	Theme
XI	The Pilgrim’s Chain	Duty, karma, the weight of incarnation
XII	Temples of Bone	Civilization, dogma, empire
XIII	The False Light	Corruption of truth, false prophets
XIV	Beneath the Skin	Psychology, trauma, subconscious journey
XV	A City Called Memory	Collective memory, cultural evolution
XVI	The Cry of the Nameless	Revolution, liberation, collective pain
XVII	The Fire Beneath Thrones	Politics, power, the rot in high places
XVIII	The Spiral Path	Recurrence, destiny, spiritual fatigue
XIX	The Children of Dust	Hope, innocence, legacy
XX	The Long Road Home	Reunion with divine memory, transcendence

 

Canto XI – The Pilgrim’s Chain

A shackle bound in light and time,
Not forged in sin, nor drawn from crime.
But linked by choice, and breath, and name,
The soul began the pilgrim’s flame.

Through age and mask it walked again,
A thousand skins, a thousand men.
Each life, a tiny thread in fate’s boundless loom,
Each birth a spark, each death a tomb.

It bore the weight of choice and deed,
Of every want, of every need.
No chain of iron could bind more tight,
Than karma wound in unseen light.

The path was steep, the night was long,
But still it moved with silent song.
For deep within that pilgrim’s chain,
Was fire that sanctified the pain.

It knelt at graves, it kissed the rain,
It walked through joy, and broke through shame.
Each step a vow to walk the wheel,
Until the soul could truly heal.

 

Canto XII – Temples of Bone

They built with stone, with blood and fear,
A thousand shrines to gods unclear.
Each altar spoke of power, pride,
Of kings who claimed the stars as guide.

They carved their law in tooth and steel,
And called it holy, true, and real.
But buried deep beneath the dome,
Lay truth forgotten, far from home.

For what is faith when bought with swords?
Or prayers enforced by slavish cords?
The soul, once free, was bound in creed,
Its hunger fed by want and need.

And still it knelt, and still it sang,
Though hollow grew each sacred clang.
The temples high, the hearts grown low,
A faith of dust, a sainted show.

Yet somewhere, through the chiseled veil,
A whisper cried, a spirit frail:
“There is no home in crowns of bone—
The soul must rise through truth alone.”

 

Canto XIII – The False Light

The prophets came with golden tongues,
With verses sweet and silver lungs.
They lit the sky with borrowed glow,
And promised what they did not know.

They claimed the truth, they sold the flame,
And wrapped it in a righteous name.
But light, when stolen from the Source,
Becomes a blade, a bent discourse.

The soul once wandered toward the gleam,
Believing hope, believing dream.
Yet found behind each blazing door,
A hollow shrine, a god of war.

And still it walked, though led astray,
Through mazes shaped of night and day.
Each false light failed, each idol fell,
And left the soul within its shell.

But truth, though dim, still gently shone,
Not in the crowd, but in the lone.
The quiet voice, the silent fire —
Not in the flash, but deep desire.

 

Canto XIV – Beneath the Skin

The soul now turned its gaze within,
Beyond the flesh, beneath the skin.
Where shadows curled and memories slept,
And tears unwept were still unwept.

It saw the scars that shaped the mind,
The ghosts of love it left behind.
The shame, the guilt, the buried cries,
The truths that wore a thousand lies.

It walked through tunnels carved by pain,
And met itself again, again.
No demon there, no holy sage —
But pieces trapped in time and cage.

And in that dark, it found a spark,
A pulse beneath the pain-soaked bark.
That life could heal, and time forgive,
And even broken hearts could live.

Thus knowing self was not a sin,
It rose renewed from deep within.

 

Canto XV – A City Called Memory

There lies a city built of thought,
Where every soul has stories caught.
Its streets are paved with moments lost,
With love and grief and every cost.

It wanders through each age and race,
Each victory and each disgrace.
A map of mind, a hall of concert,
Where even falsehoods still belong.

Yet walking through its silent lanes,
The soul remembered joys and pains.
It saw how history built its cage,
And wrote the lines upon its page.

But knowing is the key to grace —
To name the ghosts we all must face.
And thus the city, known at last,
Became a doorway to the past.

For only those who truly see,
Can write a future and be free.

 

Canto XVI – The Cry of the Nameless

They rose with hands not known to kings,
Not born to gold, nor fed by strings.
The nameless ones, the bent and bruised,
By centuries of pain accused.

Their voices lost in page and song,
Declared at last: "We too belong!"
And from the gutters, slums, and mines,
They broke the chains, they crossed the lines.

No hero's crown upon their head,
But fire burned where angels bled.
The soul, now split among the throng,
Joined in their cry, became their song.

A storm arose from whispered grief,
From dreams denied and stolen sheaf.
And every cry that once was still,
Now echoed strong with iron will.

No temple blessed their fiery wave,
No scripture carved their path to save.
But justice born in burning breath,
Could sanctify both life and death.

For even gods turned back in awe,
At those who bled to change the law.

And thus the nameless carved their name,
In time, in flame, in sacred shame.

 

Canto XVII – The Fire Beneath Thrones

They sat on thrones of polished lies,
With iron laws and veiled disguise.
Beneath their courts, a furnace churned,
With every cry the voiceless burned.

The soul beheld the crown's decay,
The gilded rot that paved the way.
A pact of power, pride, and blood—
Built on the flood, beneath the flood.

The kings and queens in jeweled despair,
Could scent rebellion in the air.
Yet feared not sword nor battle blade—
But truth, once seen, would not be swayed.

For underneath the golden seat,
Were buried bones and scorched deceit.
And in that heat, a reckoning grew,
The fire of what the many knew.

No tyranny can last unscarred,
When truth ignites the prison bars.
And even silence turns to flame,
When hearts remember whence they came.

So fell the throne in crimson ash,
No more to weigh, to wound, to lash.
The fire within, the fire below,
Burned falsehoods crowned in mortal glow.

 

Canto XVIII – The Spiral Path

Around and through, then back again,
The soul moved not on line, but chain.
A spiral vast, with steps unseen,
Each echo fading where it’s been.

Not forward, backward—both were lies,
For time is drawn in inward ties.
The lessons thought to be complete,
Returned in form with subtler beat.

The pain once faced returned anew,
In different masks, but still as true.
And joys once claimed came back in tears,
With mirrored hopes and ancient fears.

The soul, confused, began to ask:
“Is this the end, or just the mask?”
But higher still the spiral turned,
And with each wound, the spirit learned.

Not all that cycles stays the same—
For ashes rise as sacred flame.
And though the steps repeat in sound,
Each ring ascends above the ground.

The spiral path, though winding slow,
Revealed the truth that souls must grow.
Not in escape, nor in control,
But depth—within the turning soul.

 

Canto XIX – The Children of Dust

From ash and soil the young ones came,
No crowns, no curse, no earned acclaim.
Yet in their eyes a fearless gleam,
That whispered of a larger dream.

They played where old empires had died,
Where saints and tyrants failed and lied.
And built with hands still free from hate,
A world unscarred by sword or gate.

The soul beheld them, small and wild,
And saw in each the sacred child.
Not bound to past, nor future’s fear,
But present joy, untouched and clear.

Their laughter wove through shattered stone,
Their games revived what time had known.
And in their dance, a truth began:
That peace might come through child and land.

No holy war, no chosen race,
But every heart a meeting place.
Where dust and breath and spirit blend,
And wounds begin to softly mend.

The children taught the soul to see,
That hope was not a prophecy—
But born anew in every trust,
In every child of sacred dust.

 

Canto XX – The Long Road Home

Through ruin, fire, and endless night,
The soul beheld a distant light.
Not blazing bright nor boldly shown,
But quiet, like a seed once sown.

Each step was etched with lessons deep,
Of wounds that taught, and dreams that weep.
The path was not a road of stone,
But choices made when most alone.

No angel called from skies above,
No trumpet sang, no soaring dove.
Just silence, steady as the tide,
That whispered truth the self could bide.

The soul recalled the forge, the flame,
The thousand lives, the shifting name.
And in the mirror of its pain,
It saw not loss—but fullest gain.

To walk is not to reach an end,
But meet the Self, become the Friend.
And what was sought in stars and lore,
Was waiting just beyond the door.

Not somewhere far the soul must go,
But inward, where the embers glow.
And on that path, through death and dome,
The soul began the road back home.

 

 

Book III

The Breaking Dawn

 

 

Canto #	Title	Theme
XXI	The Shattering Light	The clash of illusion and awakening truth
XXII	The Silent Scream	Inner conflict, the voice of the heart
XXIII	The Garden of Broken Dreams	Rebirth, the intersection of hope and despair
XXIV	The Echo of Forgotten Gods	Spiritual amnesia, remembering the divine
XXV	The Fall of the Unseen Realm	Power dynamics, the destruction of false systems
XXVI	Beneath the Veil	Mystical journey, discovering the hidden truth
XXVII	The Thread of Fate	Destiny, free will, and the consequences of choice
XXVIII	The Last Stand	Resistance, sacrifice, the final battle of self
XXIX	The Shards of Eternity	Reflection, the truth of time and the eternal self
XXX	The Return of the Flame	Reconciliation, divine reunion, transcendence

 

Canto XXI – The Shattering Light

The dawn was not a gentle thing,
But a clash of dark and fiery wing.
The soul, once veiled in quiet grace,
Now faced the light that burned its face.

For in that light, the truth arose—
A sight that none but time could pose.
The veil of lies, the shadowed crown,
All shattered as the sun came down.

The soul, once bound in chains of fear,
Now broke apart, drew wide and clear.
No more the mask of past delight,
But broken now in shattering light.

It heard the cry of worlds unseen,
Of gods betrayed, of mortal sin.
And in that cry, a thousand screams—
Of all that died, of all that dreamed.

Yet in the wreckage, something grew—
A flame, a spark, a truth anew.
For from the ashes of despair,
A life emerged, reborn from air.

This light would guide the path ahead,
A torch of fire, a soul not dead.
And through the dark, though shattered bright,
The soul would find its way in light.

 

Canto XXII – The Silent Scream

In silence deep, the soul did cry,
A scream that echoed through the sky.
Not for the world, nor any ear,
But for itself—alone, unclear.

A voice that broke the bounds of time,
And climbed the peaks of every climb.
For though the world was still and mute,
The soul’s scream shook the absolute.

In darkest night, where none could see,
The soul unraveled, wild and free.
Not outward loud, nor inward small,
But stretched across the void of all.

It screamed of dreams both lost and won,
Of battles fought, of hopes undone.
It screamed of love, and endless hate,
Of life, of death, of time’s cruel weight.

And in that scream, the soul did find
The truth it long had left behind:
That in the silence of despair,
The soul is born anew, laid bare.

In every scream, a song will rise,
For what is lost will be its prize.
And in the dark, where none could see,
The soul cried out—and was set free.

 

Canto XXIII – The Garden of Broken Dreams

Beyond the wasteland, beyond the pain,
Where memories of hope still stain,
There lies a garden—rich with bloom,
A place that grows from deepest gloom.

For in the soil of shattered hearts,
The roots of life began their starts.
And though the leaves were torn with strife,
A flower bloomed from broken life.

Each petal told a story deep,
Of dreams that died, and dreams that weep.
Yet still they grew, despite the cost,
For life is found where hope was lost.

The soul walked through that garden’s gate,
And saw in every tear, in every weight,
The seeds of love, the hope of change—
For even in despair, there’s room for range.

So let the broken dreams take root,
And from them rise a sacred fruit.
For what is lost, though stained with grief,
Shall find its place in sweet relief.

 

Canto XXIV – The Echo of Forgotten Gods

In lands forgotten, gods once reigned,
Their names now lost, their power feigned.
And yet their echoes still remain,
In whispered winds, in endless rain.

For though the temples turned to dust,
Their dreams, their hopes, in ruin trust.
And though their altars fade from view,
Their spirits rise, reborn anew.

The soul now searched for ancient names,
For gods that once had wielded flames.
And in the silence, there they stood,
Not lost, but waiting in the wood.

For even gods must fade away,
But not their wisdom, not their sway.
In every myth, in every tale,
The echoes live, and never pale.

The soul, now humbled, bowed in grace,
To gods forgotten, time erased.
For even in their final breath,
They whispered truth beyond death.

 

Canto XXV – The Fall of the Unseen Realm

Beneath the stars, beyond the veil,
The unseen realms began to pale.
A trembling force began to rise,
And tore the night from open skies.

The walls of silence broke apart,
And chaos came to claim the heart.
No longer hidden from the sight,
The unseen realm was brought to light.

The gods who dwelled in shadowed peace,
Now faced the storm that would not cease.
Their power cracked, their thrones were torn,
For in the breaking, they were born.

The unseen realms, once full of grace,
Now stood exposed, a desolate place.
And in the rift, the soul did see—
That truth is found where none can flee.

 

Canto XXVI – Beneath the Veil

Behind the veil, where light once lay,
A shadow stirred to claim its sway.
It moved in silence, soft and wide,
A presence known, yet none could hide.

No sound, no shape, but all was felt,
A force that bent the soul to melt.
For in the dark, where none could see,
The veil was not what it seemed to be.

Beneath the cloth, a world was born,
Of fear and hope, of night and morn.
The veil was but a fragile screen,
That covered what was true and keen.

The soul did venture, deep and far,
To see beyond the evening star.
And in the mist, it saw the truth—
That what is hidden brings its proof.

The veil that once had masked the way,
Now lifted, bringing light of day.
And in its glow, the soul could see
The truth that once was lost to be.

Beneath the veil, the soul did find
A world of peace, a world untwined.
For in the dark, there is no fear—
Just truth that speaks, both far and near.

 

Canto XXVII – The Thread of Fate

The thread was thin, yet strong and long,
Woven through both right and wrong.
It wound through time, through space, through soul,
Binding the lost, and making whole.

Each choice a knot, each step a strain,
The thread of fate, both joy and pain.
For every action set in motion,
A ripple grew, a distant ocean.

The soul did follow, step by step,
Through tangled paths, through sun and depth.
For every twist, for every turn,
It learned the art of loss and learn.

The thread was not a simple line,
But woven deep, divine, malign.
The soul, though pulled and stretched so wide,
Could feel its essence still inside.

And though the thread would one day break,
It would be mended, for its sake.
For fate was but a path to trace,
And every twist would lead to grace.

The soul, in time, would come to see
The thread was part of destiny.
And though its path was tangled tight,
It would emerge into the light.

Canto XXVIII – The Last Stand

The sky was torn, the heavens cried,
As ancient wars of self defied.
The soul did stand upon the hill,
A final test, a choice to fill.

For all that lived within the heart,
Now came to tear the soul apart.
The shadows whispered, soft and sweet,
While angels wept beneath defeat.

The soul did fight, with trembling hand,
Against the forces, taking stand.
The battle raged, both fierce and wild,
A war within, no peace beguiled.

Yet in the storm, the soul did find
The strength to leave the past behind.
For in the silence, there was peace,
And in the choice, the soul found release.

And though the war still fought within,
The soul emerged, no longer thin.
It stood, once broken, whole again,
The last stand made, the soul did win.

Canto XXIX – The Shards of Eternity

In pieces laid, the world was torn,
And from the cracks, a light was born.
The shards of time, the bits of soul,
Reflected all the world’s great goal.

For in the broken, there’s a whole,
And in the shattered, there’s a soul.
The soul did see the pieces bright,
And in each shard, a new light.

The cracks that scarred, the wounds that bled,
Now formed a path where none had tread.
The brokenness became the whole,
For each shard echoed the soul.

The soul now saw its scattered parts,
And through the wounds, through all the hearts,
A unity began to grow—
For every break had taught it so.

In the shards, the soul did find
A truth that lived in fractured mind.
For in the pieces, broken wide,
The soul was whole, and none could hide.

 

Canto XXX – The Return of the Flame

And in the final light that rose,
The flame of truth once more did glow.
The soul, now free, now whole, now bright,
Returned to dance in endless light.

For what had burned in darkest night,
Now blazed as stars, as sun, as might.
The soul, now pure, no longer strained,
Returned to flame, in peace regained.

The journey done, the trials passed,
The soul was free, at last, at last.
And though the road had bent and twirled,
It found its place within the world.

For light does not end, nor time decay,
But rises always, day by day.
The flame that flickered once in night,
Now burns forever, shining bright.

And so the soul, both vast and small,
Returned to the light, to claim it all.
The flame within, forever bright,
The return of truth, the end of night.

                                                                                                                                      Jayan M K

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