Voice comes in close and plain on the seed. Almost nothing softens it.

She lifts toward the sea and slow motion, but the track still keeps its feet in the soil.

There. The refrain hits like a sentence the body already knows, and the pulse finally takes a stride.

Fallen trees, poisoned rivers—same bar, same blunt alarm, driven in again.

Second pass. Same words, but now the groove has caught and the accents lean restless inside it.

Arrangement pulls inward. Suffocate me—voice turns the body into weather without shouting.

Everything wants to live. Harmony warms just enough to keep the plea from freezing into slogan.

Money line comes back heavier. Ceremonial, tense, marching around a wound.

Feed me sunlight. Feed me air. The demand changes what counts as nourishment.

Truth and prayers next. Surface flickers; the underlying motion never really exhales.

Full gathered refrain. Last tree, poisoned rivers—less prophecy now than a threshold underfoot.