It howled at night in the pitch-black jungle. It wanted to spring upon its prey, Upon hearing the prayer. Oh! It was a calling. It possessed the man to commit the act. The possession is real, oh, it's true! The urge is real, the thirst too. He's a conniving man now! He turned towards the moon and smiled. He pulled his claws and wings out, And flew towards the moon. Oh, the beast it was. He got hold of a branch and moved forward; Branch by branch and tree by tree; Moved till the end of the trees. At the sight of lotus pond. He stretched to grab the flower he loved. In the water, when he saw himself. Astonished, at his reflection. For the Demon he was. All along the way, was I always a demon? Is my bad myself as the good is me? Am I demon to act the thought? Is the good thought-not-act? He growled and cried for his own reflection. The guilt killed his mind, ah, the tears. The appearance too; unwatchable! Turn me back! He growled. But can he? Or will he change the act done? The devilish deed and demonish greed. The wantings of urge and pure need. Now he is all the demon's feed. The demon jumped out, sprung out from him. Left him crying at the pond, laughing hard. The man on his knees, crying out loud. But would he know it left? Would he ever again dare to see in the pond? Could he ever have a glance at himself? Will he realise that it was not him? That it was the demon. And the demon? Just part of his mind's jungle. The one that hides and attacks when called. The actions! It possesses them hard. The thoughts however, not! It is the thoughts that call it out to act open. The man could have controlled the call. But did he? He gave himself to it. He sold the soul to the demon. Now he gets what he asked for, the eternal guilt. The burden of the thought; that unasked act. That could have passed away; the thought. But it did turn into an act. The unforgettable. The un-passable. Quite natural. But still is, Not-allowed! Is never. No, No. No.