the republic of sleepwalkers

[Verse 1] In the Republic of Sleepwalkers the streets are paved with borrowed thoughts. Numbered mouths repeat a liturgy composed by the unseen. The bells above the city toll only for Mammon. Citizens kneel before abstractions — a parliament ruling the realm of death. A million believers in borrowed commandments, frightened servants of “should” and “ought.” [Verse 2] Every life a silent administration within the borders of controlled lands. A flock of believers in the gospel of permitted choice, where freedom is only the echo of a distant scripted voice. They worship the idols of numbered existence, statistics marching in ordered ranks. Life reduced to bureaucratic whispers — iron wrapped in velvet, a prison disguised as fate. [Pre-Chorus] They kneel before tomorrow's promise, curse the burden of yesterday, yet never touch the silent question burning beneath the clay. Every savior becomes another shepherd, teaching the flock how to die. [Chorus] No god will descend through the noise, no hero will fracture the sky. The chains around this world are forged from the fear to defy. Break the altar of sacred obedience, tear down the myth of the throne. He who waits for a savior has already buried his own. Kneel before nothing that claims to own you. No crown of heaven. No state. Your sacred order is only a story cowards invented as fate. Destroy every idol that feeds on obedience. Burn every script they recite. The only authority breathing within you is the courage to decide. [Verse 3] Some revel in kingdoms of comfort, fed by the sugar of endless supply. Others pray to storms of salvation, waiting politely for history. But revolutions die in living rooms where outrage fades into sleep. The tyrant survives in the marrow of promises cowards keep. Priests in suits preach markets and nations. Their incense is digital light. Algorithms, profit and growth sit quietly crowned as gods. And the faithful scroll glowing scriptures like monks of a luminous lie, believing the pulse of a distant machine is the rhythm of destiny's sky. [Bridge] I have looked behind the curtain of meaning, where abstractions masquerade as kings. There are no nations in forests, no borders between living things. The universe laughs at paper empires, at passports stamped in dust. When illusions collapse only the self remains — deciding it must. Perhaps the herd was always willing. Perhaps the cage was always home. Perhaps the mind prefers its masters to wandering the cosmic unknown. Freedom is not a gentle garden — it is a desert without a guide. A place where the self becomes its law, with no mythology left to hide. [Final Chorus] No god will descend through the noise, no hero will fracture the sky. The chains around this world are forged from the fear to defy. Break the altar of sacred obedience, tear down the myth of the throne. He who waits for a savior has already buried his own. Kneel before nothing that claims to own you. And when the world of obedience collapses, when comfort dissolves into night, from the ruins of managed existence rise those who remember their might.