Impostors are singing songs of other’s triumphs,
Surrounding me in sounds of the shared identity;
The everyman that emerges from storytelling,
Hollow to the core.
The rythym rises from a past hidden inside,
Pushing towards eruption,
Craving to be seen.
Instead, the winds push me down,
Hold the ground above my head to block out the moon’s smile,
Keeping the secret away accidental ears.
This subterranean cell can’t hold me,
According to the echoes whispering in my voice.
I can reach through the core into the heart of man,
Finding a compassionate key,
In the form of resonance of rebellion:
La Clé à l’Énigme,
Yet the fire burns my outreached palm,
Scorching the attempt at peacemaking,
Aimed at the chasm.
The walls stand vigilant against my persuasions,
The world is vigilant,
No matter how I throw my might against it,
I am one cosmic dust particle with dreams of grandeur,
With no power to my name.
“What right to kingship does dust have over dust?”
As an answer,
A puzzle-key turns,
And my cell door swings open.
As an answer,
A puzzle-key turns,
And my cell door swings open.