Oh ho, the wind is a vagrant crown, It fits no brow for long, Yet every soul that walks its edge Must learn the roaming song. We rise with rust upon our hands, With stars sewn in our coats, And barter wit for one more dawn On unremembered boats. The crown I wear is hammered thin From debts I could not flee, A king of those who own no ground But oath and mutiny. My throne is stitched from borrowed maps, My court from cast-off fate, We gamble gods with bone and wire At freedom’s leaning gate. Oh swing the chord and break the lock, Let law dissolve in spray, For order is a paper god The tide will take away. We trade in tricks and broken vows, In lightning trapped in jars, We sell tomorrow’s miracles For rumors, code, and scars. I’ve worn a thousand borrowed skins, I’ve died by forward means, I’ve hacked the bones of destiny Where history runs in machines. The faithful pray with clenched-up fists, We pray with open knives, And steal the fire the heavens hoard To solder busted lives. So pour the void into my cup, Let consequence be wine, For every rule that ever stood Was built to be declined. We are the noise beneath the world, The laugh inside the fear, The static under every throne That tyrants strain to hear. Oh ho, the wind is a vagrant crown, And still it calls my name— Not for the blood I carry now, But for the spark I claim. I rule no land, I sign no laws, I bend no loyal knee, Yet every road that shakes its chains Still answers back to me.
