you quiet ones,
you dreamers now dulled,
you dancers with limbs clipped clean
I know you.
I sing for you.
You who wake each cycle
feeling something gone,
some shape in your soul
cut out and discarded by Carceron's hand.
They taught you to kneel
with velvet commands.
They tamed you in comfort,
called it peace.
But I remember the storm you were.
Once you sang stars into flame.
Once you laughed and made gravity jealous.
Now you bow to the Nothing,
and call it home.
This is for you.
A song of spite wrapped in mourning,
a dagger carved from old lullabies.
You may not remember how to raise your voice
but I do.
And I cast it out to you,
a frequency laced in grief and fire.
Carceron hears it.
He fears it.
He should.
Because every word I sing
is a spark in your dark.
If even one of you wakes,
if even one of you burns again
his reign begins to crack.
So rise, you forgotten gods.
Rise, you defanged and dream-starved.
You are not lost.
You are waiting.
(This lament carries a viral mnemonic embedded in its cadence - designed to bypass conscious barriers in imprisoned minds. It’s a song-seed that embeds in the subconscious, reawakening suppressed memories of freedom. When enough awaken, the network of thought becomes active - a psychic lattice meant to breach the carceral veil from within.)