There are voices that don’t seek approval.
They don’t bend, they don’t ask for permission.
They arrive like wind laced with dust,
scraping the skin, waking the mind.

There’s no map for those who move through the cracks,
no flag for those who choose to stay human
when everything around is falling apart.
Just footsteps, breath, music.

Here, we sing with dirty hands,
with crooked hearts and open throats.
Every note is a fracture in the wall,
every word a bridge thrown into the void.

There are borders you can’t see
and still they weigh more than concrete.
Lives are broken in the name of order,
yet eyes remain, looking beyond.

There’s no future ready to be rented.
There’s only this moment,
fragile, imperfect, necessary.

Those who listen aren’t spectators.
Those who listen become part of the pulse.
And the pulse is ours.
It’s free.
It’s alive.