Giants Silent Morning

woodhouseboy1985

cinematic rock opera, orchestral rock, dark ambient

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[Intro - Soft Spoken]
Morning did come.
Though I did not think it would.
And in the strange mercy of that pale grey light,
the giants stood silent.

[Verse 1]
Fields of ash and broken hedges,
empty boots beside the well,
all the world reduced to whispers
no survivor dared to tell.
There they stood, the red colossi,
frozen in the dirty day,
like proud thoughts abandoned halfway
when the mind has gone away.

[Verse 2]
No great cannon felled the monsters,
no grand wisdom won the field,
just the smallest hidden armies
that no iron shield could shield.
Tiny mouths and unseen kingdoms,
working where no eye had gone,
brought the mighty to their ending
with a silence older than dawn.

[Pre-Chorus]
And in my hands,
the gramophone,
still warm,
still wound,
still not my own.

[Chorus]
When the needle falls,
when the empire breaks,
when the loudest voice in heaven
finally cracks and shakes,
who will hear the truth,
who will bear the choice,
after all the world has trembled
at His Master's Voice?

[Spoken]
I set the player down
beside the ruins of the lane.
The brass horn was dented.
The walnut split.
Yet when I touched the turntable,
it moved.

[Verse 3]
Then a final record started,
one I’d never seen before,
plain and black and without label,
smooth as midnight at its core.
And the voice that came was softer,
almost human in its ache:
"Every master makes a servant.
Every servant has to wake."

[Bridge]
So I thought of dogs and emblems,
of the painted listening hound,
of the way we bow to thunder
when we should inspect the sound.
Of the kings we make from echoes,
of the fear we name as law,
of the polished horn of power
and the faithful open jaw.

[Chorus]
When the needle falls,
we can choose again.
We can leave the speaking idols
buried in the rain.
No machine of doom,
no commander's voice,
can own the soul that will not kneel
to His Master's Voice.

[Final Spoken Monologue]
And so I buried it.
Not deep enough to forget,
perhaps,
but deep enough that children would not find it
while the earth was still tender from war.
Yet sometimes, when the evening turns red,
and the air feels charged like waiting wires,
I think I hear a faint rotation beneath the soil...
and a dog,
still listening.

[Final Chorus]
When the needle falls,
let the living sing.
Let the shattered towns remember
they were never owned by kings.
If another voice should rise
from the dark by old device,
let it find us standing fearless
before His Master's Voice.

[Outro]
The record sleeps.
The earth turns.
We listen differently now.

2528/7500

[Intro - Soft Spoken] Morning did come. Though I did not think it would. And in the strange mercy of that pale grey light, the giants stood silent. [Verse 1] Fields of ash and broken hedges, empty boots beside the well, all the world reduced to whispers no survivor dared to tell. There they stood, the red colossi, frozen in the dirty day, like proud thoughts abandoned halfway when the mind has gone away. [Verse 2] No great cannon felled the monsters, no grand wisdom won the field, just the smallest hidden armies that no iron shield could shield. Tiny mouths and unseen kingdoms, working where no eye had gone, brought the mighty to their ending with a silence older than dawn. [Pre-Chorus] And in my hands, the gramophone, still warm, still wound, still not my own. [Chorus] When the needle falls, when the empire breaks, when the loudest voice in heaven finally cracks and shakes, who will hear the truth, who will bear the choice, after all the world has trembled at His Master's Voice? [Spoken] I set the player down beside the ruins of the lane. The brass horn was dented. The walnut split. Yet when I touched the turntable, it moved. [Verse 3] Then a final record started, one I’d never seen before, plain and black and without label, smooth as midnight at its core. And the voice that came was softer, almost human in its ache: "Every master makes a servant. Every servant has to wake." [Bridge] So I thought of dogs and emblems, of the painted listening hound, of the way we bow to thunder when we should inspect the sound. Of the kings we make from echoes, of the fear we name as law, of the polished horn of power and the faithful open jaw. [Chorus] When the needle falls, we can choose again. We can leave the speaking idols buried in the rain. No machine of doom, no commander's voice, can own the soul that will not kneel to His Master's Voice. [Final Spoken Monologue] And so I buried it. Not deep enough to forget, perhaps, but deep enough that children would not find it while the earth was still tender from war. Yet sometimes, when the evening turns red, and the air feels charged like waiting wires, I think I hear a faint rotation beneath the soil... and a dog, still listening. [Final Chorus] When the needle falls, let the living sing. Let the shattered towns remember they were never owned by kings. If another voice should rise from the dark by old device, let it find us standing fearless before His Master's Voice. [Outro] The record sleeps. The earth turns. We listen differently now.

0/500