[Verse 1 — quiet, intimate] The heart is the mayor, working under city lights, feeding every avenue, keeping everybody alive. But even the heart needs silence, even the strong need space, even the one who carries everyone needs somewhere safe to break. [Pre-Chorus] Down beneath the speeches, beneath the names we celebrate, there are a million quiet hands holding up the weight. [Chorus — opens wide] The body is a town without a gate, no one lives alone, no one carries all the weight, every little life is holding someone else’s place. There is no top, there is no bottom, there is only what we make when every part belongs here— in this town without a gate. [Verse 2] The liver works the night shift, the kidneys clean the rain, the marrow in the darkness makes the blood that comes again. The smallest doors keep opening, the lungs receive the sky, and strangers in the marketplace help keep the town alive. We drew a line around us, called everything outside strange, but every border in this body was designed for an exchange. [Pre-Chorus] And maybe what we called the bottom was the foundation all along. Maybe those we never noticed were the reason we were strong. [Chorus] The body is a town without a gate, no one lives alone, no one carries all the weight, every little life is holding someone else’s place. There is no top, there is no bottom, there is only what we make when every part belongs here— in this town without a gate. [Verse 3 — darker] Then somebody sounds the siren, says, “Your neighbour is the threat.” And the guards begin attacking every face they’ve ever met. The streets forget their sleeping, the bones forget to grow, the heart keeps beating harder for a war it doesn’t know. You cannot frighten one street and keep the others safe. The fear you pour into one home will travel every vein. [Break — almost spoken] There is no victory when a body fights itself. There is only less of us left standing. [Verse 4 — gentle rebuilding] But lymph has got no mayor, no palace and no throne. It moves because we’re moving, it cannot move alone. A walking foot, a rising chest, a neighbour at the door— the smallest acts between us keep the river moving forward. And when the wounded edges begin moving toward the scar, nobody orders healing. They remember what they are. [Bridge — emotional crescendo] A hand upon a shoulder, a name somebody learned, a door held open freely with no favour to return. And suddenly the heart slows down, the frightened streets grow warm, the guards come home, the market breathes, the body leaves the storm. Maybe love was never weakness. Maybe safety has a sound. Maybe belonging is the nutrient that keeps us all around. [Final Chorus — huge, communal] The body is a town without a gate, and nobody is small. Every life is carrying a little piece of all. Take the triangle down now, draw a circle in its place. There is no top, there is no bottom, when every part has weight. The heart, the hand, the blood, the bone, the stranger and the name— we hurt one, we hurt us all, because none of us are separate in this town without a gate. [Outro — stripped back] And somewhere in the darkness is a bone three millimetres small, turning trembling air to sound so one can hear the call. The smallest one among us helps us hear each other still. We hurt one, we hurt us all. Not as a slogan. As anatomy.
