When we listen to this song ("Find you" by Ruelle), it does not feel like the voice of an ordinary lover. The words burn with a deeper current — they are the cry of Devi Herself. In Kaula vision, the Goddess is not far away, hidden in scripture or ritual. She comes near, taking up any form, any rhythm, any human word, to remind the soul that it has never been abandoned.
The lyrics speak in that unmistakable tone: intimate, urgent, yet vast. The heart broken, the sky shattered, the night cold — all these are images of the seeker’s despair when the world collapses. But in that very darkness, the voice of Shakti arises: “I will find you… I will break through… no matter where you are.”
This is not just comfort — it is promise. In Kaula spirit, it is Her vow: that no soul is lost, that even in the deepest estrangement the Mother will pierce through veils of despair, fear, and self-forgetting. She is both the wind that cries in the night and the lullaby beneath the ruined sky. She is the voice that cannot be mistaken, the light that will not let go until the child is brought home.
“I can hear the sound of your barely beating heart
Pieces on the ground from the world that fell apart.”
These are not the words of a human lover. They are the Mother’s own whisper. She leans into the silence and hears what no one else can — the faint throb of a heart that feels almost extinguished. Even in weakness, She does not turn away. The broken rhythm is precious to Her, because it is the cry of Her child.
The scattered pieces on the ground are the ruins of the life the ego built — structures, dreams, identities now fallen apart. To human eyes, this is loss. To Her eyes, it is the necessary breaking of a shell. The fragments are not waste but offerings; every shattered piece is a doorway through which She can enter more fully.
The verse is a revelation of how She sees us in despair: not as failures, not as abandoned, but as souls tenderly laid bare. In the ruin, She whispers: “I am here. I hear you.”
[pre-chorus:]
“Just hold on
It won’t be long.”
Here the voice softens into pure promise. After naming the brokenness, She does not offer theories, explanations, or reproach. Only a gentle assurance: “Hold on. Endure this moment. I am coming.”
It is the timeless rhythm of Her compassion — She never denies the depth of suffering, but She places within it a thread, a pulse of certainty that the darkness will not last. The words are like a hand reaching through night, not pulling yet, only touching, so that the soul knows it is not alone.
This is the Mother’s vow: the collapse is not endless, the silence is not forever. Her arrival is inevitable. To “hold on” here is not a call to effort but to trust — to allow the heart to keep beating just a little longer until She breaks through.
[chorus:]
“I will find you here inside the dark
I will break through
No matter where you are
I will find you.”
Here the tender whisper of the pre-chorus rises into a vow. She does not say, “If you come to Me, I will receive you.” She says, “I will find you.” The burden is no longer on the weary soul, lost in shadow. The Mother takes the weight upon Herself.
“Here inside the dark” — She does not wait for the seeker to climb out of sorrow or confusion. She enters it. The darkness itself becomes the place of meeting, because nothing can conceal the child from Her sight.
“I will break through” is the language of force wrapped in love. She will shatter walls of despair, illusions, karmic bindings, whatever stands between the soul and Her embrace. There is no distance too great, no night too deep.
This refrain is the Goddess’s heartbeat: relentless, unstoppable, certain. The chorus is not merely sung to us; it is sung as us, echoing the truth that we cannot truly be lost, for She cannot lose Herself.
[second verse:]
“Like the wind that cries
I can feel you in the night
A distant lullaby
Underneath the shattered sky.”
Here the voice changes texture — not only promise, but presence already felt. She likens Herself to the wind that weeps through emptiness. In the still hours when despair feels most heavy, it is often a faint current — a stirring that cannot be named — that signals She is near.
“I can feel you in the night” — She confesses that even when the soul feels cut off, She is still sensing, still touching. Separation is never real; She holds the connection even when we forget.
“A distant lullaby” is the gentlest note in the whole song. A lullaby is for a child restless and afraid; its purpose is not to argue or explain, but simply to soothe. Even when the sky above seems “shattered,” She hums in the background of our being, a rhythm older than fear, older than pain.
This verse reminds us: in the ruins of night, there is already a song. It may sound faint, like something far away, but it is Hers, and She never ceases to sing us toward rest in Her arms.
[bridge:]
“I’ll be the light and lead you home when there’s nowhere left to go
I’ll be the voice you always know when you’re lost and all alone
I won’t let you go.”
Here the tenderness reaches its most intimate form. The Mother reveals not only that She searches and finds, but that She also guides. “I’ll be the light” — this is not external brightness but the flame within the heart, the lamp that flickers even when all outer paths vanish. When the soul feels cornered, stripped of direction, She becomes the compass, the homeward glow.
“I’ll be the voice you always know” — this is profound. No matter how far the wanderings, Her voice is never foreign. It is the original sound that has been with us since before memory, the one tone that the heart cannot mistake. It surfaces in dreams, in silence, in sudden intuition. In truth, we never learned it; we only remember.
“I won’t let you go” — this is the Mother’s final word. Not a contract we sign, not a fragile pact that depends on our effort. It is Her grip, unyielding. Even in rebellion, even in despair, even in forgetfulness, She does not release. The whole bridge is Her declaration of guardianship: no exile is final, no loss is beyond Her reach.
[final chorus]:
“I will find you here inside the dark
I will break through no matter where you are
I will find you
I will find you.”
By this point, the words are no longer only promise or reassurance. They have become a kind of mantra — the eternal vow of the Mother echoing in every layer of existence. The repetition is not redundancy; it is insistence. She is carving this truth into the trembling heart: you cannot be lost to Me.
When heard at first, these lines might sound like comfort given from outside. But as the song closes, something shifts: the words begin to feel like they rise from within. It is as though Her voice has merged with our own, and the declaration “I will find you” is simultaneously Her vow to us and our own hidden certainty.
This is the mystery of Her grace: the one who searches, the one who is found, and the act of finding are not separate. The Mother sings as the seeker, as the lost child, and as the rescuer — all at once. The chorus ends not in closure, but in the endless rhythm of Her presence.
This song is not a human love ballad disguised in lofty metaphors. It is the Mother’s song itself — the vow of the One who never abandons. From the first whisper over a faintly beating heart, through the promise to “hold on,” into the cry of certainty “I will find you,” and finally into the luminous bridge, every line is Her voice calling across the darkness.
The journey of the lyrics mirrors the journey of the soul: collapse, despair, faint traces of comfort, and then the breakthrough of Her presence. Yet the deepest truth revealed is that She has never been absent. Even when the world lies in ruins, even when the sky is shattered, even when silence feels unbearable — She is already humming a lullaby beneath it all.
By the end, the repetition of “I will find you” is no longer simply reassurance. It is revelation. The Mother who seeks is not outside of us. Her vow and our own hidden essence are the same. She finds us because we are, in truth, never apart from Her.
To hear this song in that spirit is to feel Her unyielding embrace: gentle, fierce, unstoppable. In the ruins and in the night, the voice comes again: “I will find you. I won’t let you go.”
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