In the grand orchestra of existence, where every soul plays its discordant note, we hum the elegy of the overlooked. Here lies the anthem of the uncelebrated, a symphony played only for the deaf.
"The Unsung Hero," they say, is merely a lyric in a song no one dares to whistle.
Chorus of the muted, a crescendo unheard,
Echoes of praise in a vacuum absurd.
Fingertips bleed on guitar strings rusted,
To compose in silence is to be trusted.
Our stage: a sidewalk, our audience: shadows,
Dance as they will, beneath power's throes.
Echoes of praise in a vacuum absurd.
Fingertips bleed on guitar strings rusted,
To compose in silence is to be trusted.
Our stage: a sidewalk, our audience: shadows,
Dance as they will, beneath power's throes.