Note from me, Bork Song number five is complete!! Echoes of the Unmade is the longest song and also the deepest so far. I know that the topic is complex and maybe a bit much for scratch but still I hope you can all enjoy it Lyrics are added as always :) Volume and Pitch can be adjusted in the bottom left corner... and of course feel free to use the song for other projects
Lyrics: The mirror holds a stranger's face, a thousand borrowed lines, A hollow map of borrowed grace, on fleeting, fragile signs. You chase the fading afterglow of suns you've never known, A silent promise to the ghost of seeds you’ve never sown. You build a house on someone's land and call the dust your own, With borrowed stones and borrowed sand, you're not a king on a throne. You're just a whisper in the wind that doesn't own its sound, A circle that attempts to bend, to touch the sacred ground. The world you see, a careful script, a play of light and shade, A well-worn stage where futures slipped, and all the plans were made. You read the lines they gave you, speak the words they wrote for you, And call it life, a truth so weak, so carefully untrue. The comfort found in a tight cage, in walls of iron and steel, You turn the unwritten final page, but never get to feel. That subtle, bitter-sweet release, the tension in the air, The silent, unforgiving peace of knowing not to care. A fragile thing, a porcelain frame, designed to hold the light, You give a purpose, give a name, to every passing night. You speak of fate, a hidden hand, a cosmic grand design, As if a god could understand this small, pathetic shrine. You tell yourself it has a goal, a path already set, That every scar upon your soul, is part of a grand debt. To some grand purpose, some great plan, a promise from the past, That every broken, mortal man was meant to somehow last. But look outside the window frame, where silence sits and waits, The cold, indifferent, burning flame, that doesn't seal your fates. The cosmos doesn't care if you succeed or if you fall, There is no answer you can plea, to any silent call. No master weaver pulls the thread, no puppeteer on high, Just endless space and stardust spread, beneath a vacant sky. No promised path, no guiding light, just nothing to be owed, No holy savior in the night, to lighten your great load. And here's the quiet, chilling truth, the moment you should know, There is no plan, no sacred proof, no gardener to sow. No higher purpose to define the shape of your own heart, No architect, no grand design, to tear your world apart. And you're the one who drew the lines, who built the fragile stage, You're the one who reads the signs, on an unwritten page. The only hand to build the fate, and write the final line, Is your own hand. It's yours. And only yours.
