What hums beneath the concrete, under steel?
What did we bury when we buried it deep?
The towers ask nothing. The grid doesn’t feel.
What we buried will never let me sleep.

We dreamed in the wolf-dark, our skin caked with mud.
We knew without naming—what need had we for words?
Just sinew and season, the beat of our blood,
The river’s cool counsel, the scatter of birds.

The plow blade slashed where no blade had gone.
The seed became sentence, the harvest a lord.
We gave up the wander. We learned to hold on.
We fenced out the wild. We sharpened the sword.

We learned the deed. We learned the lock.
We measured the acre, we numbered the days.
The ledger’s columns replaced the sun’s clock—
We traded the wander. We learned to obey.

The server now hums where river ran through vein.
We swipe through the world from the warmth of our beds.
The wolf-dark is streaming. The scroll is our chain.
We follow, we like, we nod our bowed heads.

But the body remembers. The marrow resists.
The breath slips beyond the hum of machines.
Beneath every click, the old pulse insists—
A drum in the dark that no server has seen.

So let the feet wander where pavement gives way.
Let skin remember the chill of the stream.
The wolf-dark still waits at the edge of the day—
Not lost, only buried, still breathing its dream.

Somewhere a river still runs without name.
Somewhere the birds scatter, nameless and free.
We are what we buried. We kindle the flame.
The wolf-dark is waiting inside you and me.