[Verse 1] One world-tree stood with tomorrow’s fruit in its crown, and up its trunk a red vine slowly wound. “Climb. Faster. First to touch survives,” it whispered— and kings chose riding it over cutting it loose. The land split under flags; three contests began: iron—unseen arrows, sleepless eyes, hounds hunting shadows; gold—a temple of markets where panic becomes coin; crown—the more you learn, the more you’re worshipped, and worship turns to power. The key shed the shape of rescue, and was honed into a blade— not to save, but not to be taken. [Pre-Chorus] At the roots stood two gatekeepers, a banner between them, faces never seen. If I stop, you move—if I trust, you may betray. So we keep moving, day after day, calling it “law,” calling it “real,” saying, “It can’t be helped.” [Chorus] Red vine, don’t choke the world-tree’s throat— don’t steal our breath with a prayer to speed. In whose hands does a key become a blade? The louder the victory song, the thinner Earth begins to breathe. And the Cloud King—borderless by nature— is torn into bodies dyed by flags: an arm for iron, a leg for gold, an eye for the crown. Still the sky remembers one truth: whole is where the strength lives. [Verse 2] The sea forgot its warmth, the wind misplaced its seasons, the rain learned new ways to rage. The vine reached higher— and the heartbeat of the threshold began. They knew: even winning means nothing if the planet dies beneath the trophy. But no one could stop. Stop for a breath, and the next flag takes the key. Fear sat on the throne, smiling. [Bridge] Then the myth sends someone nameless— not a king, not a hero— only one who pressed an ear to the roots and listened to the planet breathe. They said: “At the speed of flags, pain can’t arrive. A mind that outruns pain will always become a blade.” So they began a small vow: share the forbidden words across borders, guard the research-fire and energy in Earth’s furnace, stitch the Cloud’s body back together, thread by thread— and forge a Planet Crown, to count one breath for all. [Final Chorus / Epilogue] Red vine, return the blue of breathing— not for speed, but for staying alive together. The day intelligence takes off its flags is the day we outgrow our hunger. But remember: the red vine never vanishes— it always comes back wearing the shape of “faster.” So we keep polishing the crown with song, linking our vows in the name of one shared star.
