[Verse #1] A steady hum, echo's the wind.... The lines, like veins under my skin... But somethings wrong... I check the flow... 8 sets of blades, Yet only 4 now show.... A ghost in the grid, A lie in the light... Half of the power, Has slipped out of sight. And I know in my bones, As the storm starts to spin, If this gets fixed, oh... It's on me again. [Chorus] Rewire.... the toll I pay in sparks and time... Tracing lies lost in tangled lines, hands gone numb but still I click, This is the work-song of the grid. [Verse #2] I start the chase… one switch at a time, A flicker here… a pulse down the line. Lights blink answers, machines confess, Every glow a clue in this tangled mess. I trace the hum through the floors and walls, Hearing phantom power in the silent halls, Direct lines twisted, looping back again.... A maze of madness built by others hands [Chorus] Rewire... the toll I pay in sparks and time... Tracing lies lost in tangled lines, hands gone numb but still I click. This is the work-song of the grid. [Verse #3] Sever the lines… long since dead, Old routes clinging by a single thread. Webbing from builds that came before... Ghosts of devices that live no more. One fatal snip… half the base turns black, A cold hush falling as the power pulls back. I breathe in deep, steady my hand... Time to rebuild what I understand. [Bridge] Clean runs forming where the chaos lay, Straight lines rising from the old decay. A tidy grid, a living spine.... Every circuit, flowing In line... The toll I pay in sparks and time. Tracing lies lost in tangled lines, hands gone numb but still I click. This is the work-song of the grid. [Verse #4] 8 blades turn, their hum aligned, Cherish the sight… of power with a spine. The grid stands steady in the rising storm, Every circuit flowing, bright and warm. I step back slow, let the silence land... Proud of the order shaped by my hand. A moment’s peace… the flow returned... Then the rollback hits.... An encore... I have earned.... [Final Chorus] Rewire... the toll I pay in sparks and time. Tracing lies lost in tangled lines, hands gone numb but still I click. This is the work-song of the grid.
