tenuous · galvanic · gritty
A day stitched between grief and stubborn persistence — someone pulled from rubble, a man guarding vanishing birds, a diplomatic rupture widening like a fault line — the world lurching forward on sheer determination.
Still Breathing Under Stone
Verse 1
We count what disappears against the sky —
the wide-winged things that circled and went quiet,
the grain that fed a coastline, ports on fire,
and somewhere in a village, families cornered,
waiting for a door that no one opens.
We mark the fault lines running under everything.
Chorus
Still breathing under stone,
we claw toward any opening we find.
The rubble doesn't care how long we've waited —
thirty-six hours, a lifetime, a last chance.
Something survives that had no right to.
We are that stubborn, ridiculous thing.
Verse 2
One man names the vultures one by one,
learns their habits, guards what barely clings.
Ambassadors are summoned, borders bristle,
the diplomatic weather turns to flint.
We watch the flags get lowered and re-raised
and wonder what the ceremony costs.
Chorus
Still breathing under stone,
we claw toward any opening we find.
The rubble doesn't care how long we've waited —
thirty-six hours, a lifetime, a last chance.
Something survives that had no right to.
We are that stubborn, ridiculous thing.
Bridge
Between the wreckage and the wedding bells,
between the siege and the man who guards the birds,
we live inside the gap where nothing's settled,
where grief and luck exchange a wordless nod.
We do not ask the earth to hold still for us —
we ask ourselves to hold.
Outro
We hold.
Still breathing.
We hold.
Instrumental Outro
How did it make you feel?
A new song arrives tomorrow.
Hear tomorrow's song →