In shadows cast by ancient rule,
Where silence served the tyrant’s tool,
A whisper stirred the sleeping air—
A breath, a spark, a bold dare.

The streets were cold, the sky was gray,
But hearts grew loud with things to say.
The drums of doubt began to pound,
As truth rose up from underground.

A single voice, then two, then more,
Broke through the cracks of fear and war.
No longer bowed, no longer chained,
They named the price, and none refrained.

A banner raised, not stitched with gold,
But inked with hopes the brave had told.
Each word a wound, each tear a flame,
Each step a storm, each face a name.

The world stood still—then shook and spun,
As dawn announced what must be done.
Not with a roar, but with a song,
The revolution had begun.

It started like morning, a soft golden thread,
A melody drifting where angels might tread.
The notes were like sunlight through leaves on the floor,
A tune that felt ancient, and nothing felt more.

It carried through stillness, it danced through the air,
Each sound was a promise, each silence a prayer.
A lullaby woven from starlight and breath,
So tender it lulled even sorrow to death.

But then came a tremor—so slight, so unsure,
A dissonant ripple that curdled the pure.
One note fell sideways, then faltered, then cried,
As if something sacred had twisted inside.

Harmonies tangled, like vines in the throat,
The sweetness now cloying, each lyric a coat.
For something far colder that crept from below,
A beauty deformed by the need not to show.

The song still remembered the shape it once wore,
But now it rang hollow, a locked, rusted door.
It played itself backward, then shattered apart,
A haunting, a hunger, the echo of art.

And still it keeps playing in corners, in sleep,
A song once so lovely, now buried too deep.
A tune you once trusted, now twisted and wild,
The voice of a nightmare that first sang you mild.