Lyra

Lyra moves among the stalls as the sun climbs high, Dust in her braid, steel stays by her thigh. Water’s low; the holograms fade into gray, Implants flash cold where the metal decays. She tracks the guards by the marks they bear, Notes each door, each trap laid there. Every cost shows a hungry face tonight; We stand our ground till the dark takes flight. The strictest man in the maze never blinks, never yields, He wears his law like a blade behind his eyes. He hunts the thieves by the breath they dare to take, One lie slips out, and the whole world starts to shake. Lyra, Lyra, break this lock, Prove that a perfect man can fall. Lyra, Lyra, destroy his name, Out of principle, out of flame. No one is perfect, No one is pure. Lyra, Lyra, draw the line, Make his gold look small tonight. She knows his booth by the chain‑link gleam at dusk, The coins he weighs—our last breath’s weight, I trust. He sells cuffs and skin; his crooked smile is a lie, Order’s the chain that holds us in its vice, I sigh. Lyra sees the cracks—they tell her all she needs; Fear lives behind each law, a shadow that feeds. She wants the proof he keeps locked in his chest, That missing prize could break this cursed market’s rest. If he’s so pure, let him bleed and feel the sting, Let his rules kneel to the fire in her wing. One small theft, one savage sign in the dust and smoke, To prove no man stands above the line they both have broke. Lyra, Lyra, break this lock, Prove that a perfect man can fall. Lyra, Lyra, destroy his name, Out of principle, out of flame. No one is perfect, No one is pure. Lyra, Lyra, draw the line, Make his gold look small tonight. She slips through the spice and smoke like a whisper in the wind, Past the rope, past the oath he swore to keep them in. Not for wealth, not for glory, not to own the sky, Just a mark on his perfection before whispering, “Goodbye.” Hands on steel, heart on fire, time runs thin; He turns, she runs, then vanishes within. If he catches her, let him see the truth laid bare: The thief he made her have to be is who she’ll always be. Lyra, Lyra, break this lock, Prove that a perfect man can fall. Lyra, Lyra, destroy his name, Out of principle, out of flame. No one is perfect, No one is pure. Lyra, Lyra, draw the line, Make his gold look small tonight. Desert wind, hard rain; the dust settles slow. One small thief, one big stain where the shadows grow. He swore he was pure, but the rust tells the tale One small theft, and his order starts to fail