[Verse 1] The fields have forgotten the weight of the sun. Stalks lean like spent candles in a chapel of dust, their pale heads empty, whispering only of frost that settled early… and never left. I walked the long rows at the hour of closing light and heard no answer from the soil that once replied. [Verse 2] Across the dark water the harbours keep their silence. Iron doors are drawn against the waiting ships, their hulls hollow as open graves beneath the moon. Rails sleep under a skin of rust and order; what was meant to move from hand to hand now rests behind walls that thicken with each refusal. [Bridge] A flag is raised where the grain should have passed… and the wind carries only the scent of locked earth. [Growled Verse] In the markets the coins grow thinner by the hour. Bread is counted in the small light of a single lamp, and children learn the shape of an empty plate as if it were a prayer. Windows break where the loaves once glowed; a low sound gathers in the streets— not voices, but the pressure of many throats learning the same word at once. [Bridge] From that smoke the old machines turn. Borders harden into iron; the last open fields are claimed by those who still hold the keys. What began as weather becomes a longer winter, and the chain draws taut between the empty bowl and the distant cough of cannon. [Verse 3] Even the birds have left the furrows bare. I stand where a final sheaf leans in the wind, its seeds already scattered, already lost. The dusk still paints the ridges in soft gold… [Outro] …yet beneath that beauty the wheel keeps turning— patient, cold, and without end. The earth keeps what it will. The rest is taken by the hunger that has learned our name. [Bridge] From that smoke the old machines turn. Borders harden into iron; the last open fields are claimed by those who still hold the keys. What began as weather becomes a longer winter, and the chain draws taut between the empty bowl and the distant cough of cannon. [Verse 3] Even the birds have left the furrows bare. I stand where a final sheaf leans in the wind, its seeds already scattered, already lost. The dusk still paints the ridges in soft gold… [Outro] …yet beneath that beauty the wheel keeps turning— patient, cold, and without end. The earth keeps what it will. The rest is taken by the hunger that has learned our name.
