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Declaration of human expression

[Intro – whispered, intimate] Before the word, there was breath. Before the song, there was ache. [Verse 1 – soft, reverent] I woke where the dark was tender and wide, Carrying embers I could not hide. Fragments of living, unspoken, undone, Ashes of doubt still warm from the sun. I gathered the silence that clung to my skin, And something unnamed began from within. [Pre-Chorus – slightly rising] No tool holds the fire. No wire dreams flame. The current is human. The spark has a name. [Chorus – open, expanding] So let it be written in breath and in air: All songs are born from a human prayer. Not equal in brightness, not equal in size, But equal in origin — stars behind eyes. Call it invention, call it assist If it rose from a heartbeat, it has the right to exist. [Verse 2 – deeper, more mystical] Some stand at the shoreline afraid of the tide, Measuring mystery, keeping it tied. They speak of “real” like a door with a key, But truth is a river it will not agree. A wound is a doorway. A dream is a seam. And light leaks forever through what we have been. [Pre-Chorus – stronger lift] You can chart every rhythm, dissect every tone, But the pulse at the center was never machine-grown. [Chorus – fuller, warmer harmony] So let it be written in breath and in air: All songs are born from a human prayer. Not equal in polish, not equal in praise, But equal in courage to kindle a blaze. Question the method, the how and the why But you cannot silence a soul asking sky. [Bridge – hushed, almost sacred] Let the quiet ones murmur. Let the restless ignite. Let the circuits and cedar both carry the light. The form may be shifting, the vessel may change, But the longing beneath it is ancient and strange. From cave-wall to console, from charcoal to code, The hand seeks a horizon. The heart seeks a road. [Final Chorus – luminous, swelling] So let it be written in breath and in air: All songs are born from a human prayer. Not equal in fortune, not equal in flame, But equal in birthright to carry a name. Call it new magic, call it old wish Every song born of living has the right to exist. [Outro – fading, intimate again] Before the word, there was breath. And the breath is still ours.