Авторский текст из финального пакета. Сверка с аудио — после загрузки записи.
Before the garden learned its walls,
before the sky had names,
we woke with dust upon our mouths,
two bodies from one ground.
You opened your eyes beside me,
same clay beneath our skin.
No crown was set above you.
No law had entered in.
The river knew no master.
The trees obeyed no name.
We stood inside one morning,
equal in the rain.
Then language built a ladder
where no height had been.
You raised your name above my own
and made the height a law.
Same dust.
Same fire.
Two lives
beneath one sky.
No throne was born
between us.
No law
was born in clay.
Same dust.
Same breath.
No crown
inside the ground.
You were never made
above me.
We were lifted
from one ground.
You named the beasts around us.
You named the fruit and flame.
Then turned your mouth toward me
as if I came unnamed.
I knew the pulse inside me
before your tongue could move.
A name can touch a living thing.
It cannot make it yours.
You said the earth had chosen.
You said the order stood.
But clay remembers
every hand.
It never learned
to kneel.
Same dust.
Same fire.
No heaven
chose a side.
No border crossed
the morning.
No star
divided sky.
Same dust.
Same breath.
You crowned yourself
with sound.
You were never made
above me.
We were lifted
from one ground.
You named me
after silence.
I knew myself
before the name.
You drew a line
between us.
The earth remained
the same.
No thunder
sealed your title.
No root
repeated law.
The garden cast
two shadows,
equal
on the wall.
Same dust.
Same fire.
Two lives
beneath one sky.
You built a throne
from language.
Then called
the throne divine.
Same dust.
Same breath.
No crown
inside the ground.
You were never made
above me.
We were lifted
from one ground.
One earth.
Two names.
One morning.
One sky.
They say
I rose against you.
The dust remembers:
we rose
together.