[Intro] They did not ask my name. Only how long I could row. Only how long I could last. [Verse 1] They call me Le Muet — the mute. But I remember too much to speak. I once rewrote the names of kings, Now I count ribs and salt and weeks. They shaved my head. They burned my ring. They tore the page I once composed. But silence is a second skin— And I have worn it more than most. [Pre-Chorus] They gave me no number. Only chains. Only distance. And a nameless shame. [Chorus] I’m the man without a name. Not the flame, not the claim. I carried empires in my breath— Now I drink salt, and dream of death. [Verse 2] They moved us ashore in silence. Quarantine. Cracked stone and rope. The sick were left. The rest were washed. No prayers. No fire. No hope. One man stayed apart. Sat cross-legged, barefoot, writing slow— with ink he’d begged from a guard and scraps of paper meant for lists of grain. No one spoke to him. Some thought he was mad. But I listened. And I understood. [Pre-Chorus 2] He wasn’t a priest. He wasn’t a judge. Just a man with words that refused to drown. [Chorus] I’m the man they left unnamed. But still I saw what can’t be framed. He shaped his grief in lines that breathed— And made my silence almost speak. [Bridge] One night, I crept near. He was whispering verse to no one. Not prayer. Not protest. Something older. A phrase caught in my throat. He looked up. Waited. And I said it— “Cervantes.” I had seen his face before— not in this world, but in the world where I once wore a crown. A humanoid, built to preserve the old words. His voice echoed like ink in flame. They said he was as great as Shakespeare. And now… here he was. Free. But writing as if he still remembered the chains. [Final Chorus] I am the man they left for lost. My crown was fear. My voice, the cost. But even here, beneath the tide— A verse survives. A name replies. [Outro] Cervantes.
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