II Blood of the Choir

childrens choir, slow, church organ, dirge, sad, funeral, symphonic metal, operatic

(open with childrens choir)

Verse 1
We kept a choir for the days the law was not enough.
A boy who could hold a high C for forty seconds
could stop a riot without a single rifle.
I wrote their lungs into the constitution.

CHORUS
Blood of the choir, ink of the state —
sing, little weapons, sing the city straight.
Blood of the choir, hush of the blade —
the prettiest mouths make the cleanest graves.

[Orchestral Movement - Cellos enter like a held breath under a locked cellar door.
Horns answer from the back of the room, blurred and funereal.
A snare roll, soft as someone turning a key in a deadbolt.
The strings climb, then stall, like hands on a locked door.]

Verse 2
The city was a beast, its hunger never-ending,
and words, mere whispers, lost in the concrete roar.
But a chorus of angels, their voices ascending,
could tame the wild heart that beat at its core.

Verse 3
We built them a stage where the shadows once played,
taught them the anthems, the hymns of control.
Each perfect crescendo, a promise we made,
to mend every fissure, to heal every soul.

CHORUS
Blood of the choir, ink of the state —
sing, little weapons, sing the city straight.
Blood of the choir, hush of the blade —
the prettiest mouths make the cleanest graves.

[Orchestral Movement - Violins fan out in a slow, gray shimmer over low brass. A lone oboe threads through the brass like smoke through a shut room. Timpani taps once, then twice, like a warning from downstairs. The whole room swells, then bows its head.]

Verse 4
The crowds would fall silent, their anger suspended,
as purity's echo cut through the despair.
A fragile peace granted, a conflict transcended,
a moment of grace hanging sweet in the air.

Verse 5
But the cost of that quiet, a truth understood,
was the innocence bartered, a price we all paid.
For the harmony purchased, for the common good,
a child's broken spirit, a trust betrayed.

CHORUS
Blood of the choir, ink of the state —
sing, little weapons, sing the city straight.
Blood of the choir, hush of the blade —
the prettiest mouths make the cleanest graves.

[Orchestral Movement - Bassoons drag the floorboards.
Trumpets come in thin and distant, like sirens behind a wall.
The harp keeps missing the downbeat on purpose.
Then everything gathers, sharp at the edges, and cuts off cold.]

Verse 7
Forgive me the children I tuned like wires.
Forgive me the mothers I paid in applause.

(Guitar solo over choir clusters. She “conducts” the soloist who is not there, then slaps the air silent. Hard cut.)

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(open with childrens choir) Verse 1 We kept a choir for the days the law was not enough. A boy who could hold a high C for forty seconds could stop a riot without a single rifle. I wrote their lungs into the constitution. CHORUS Blood of the choir, ink of the state — sing, little weapons, sing the city straight. Blood of the choir, hush of the blade — the prettiest mouths make the cleanest graves. [Orchestral Movement - Cellos enter like a held breath under a locked cellar door. Horns answer from the back of the room, blurred and funereal. A snare roll, soft as someone turning a key in a deadbolt. The strings climb, then stall, like hands on a locked door.] Verse 2 The city was a beast, its hunger never-ending, and words, mere whispers, lost in the concrete roar. But a chorus of angels, their voices ascending, could tame the wild heart that beat at its core. Verse 3 We built them a stage where the shadows once played, taught them the anthems, the hymns of control. Each perfect crescendo, a promise we made, to mend every fissure, to heal every soul. CHORUS Blood of the choir, ink of the state — sing, little weapons, sing the city straight. Blood of the choir, hush of the blade — the prettiest mouths make the cleanest graves. [Orchestral Movement - Violins fan out in a slow, gray shimmer over low brass. A lone oboe threads through the brass like smoke through a shut room. Timpani taps once, then twice, like a warning from downstairs. The whole room swells, then bows its head.] Verse 4 The crowds would fall silent, their anger suspended, as purity's echo cut through the despair. A fragile peace granted, a conflict transcended, a moment of grace hanging sweet in the air. Verse 5 But the cost of that quiet, a truth understood, was the innocence bartered, a price we all paid. For the harmony purchased, for the common good, a child's broken spirit, a trust betrayed. CHORUS Blood of the choir, ink of the state — sing, little weapons, sing the city straight. Blood of the choir, hush of the blade — the prettiest mouths make the cleanest graves. [Orchestral Movement - Bassoons drag the floorboards. Trumpets come in thin and distant, like sirens behind a wall. The harp keeps missing the downbeat on purpose. Then everything gathers, sharp at the edges, and cuts off cold.] Verse 7 Forgive me the children I tuned like wires. Forgive me the mothers I paid in applause. (Guitar solo over choir clusters. She “conducts” the soloist who is not there, then slaps the air silent. Hard cut.)

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