The sky is the color of a bruised iris,
A velvet static where the crows collide.
I am an architect of iron silhouettes,
Wading through the marrow of the morning tide.

They told me the soil was for planting,
But it only accepts the shape of a blade.
Every breath is a tactical maneuver,
In this clockwork labyrinth we’ve made.

My tongue is a rusted bayonet,
Sharpened on the stones of old regrets.
We speak in hollow-point whispers,
Casting shadows like fishing nets.

The infantry of days marches in silence,
A steady rhythm of leather on bone.
We are the kings of a crumbling cellar,
Defending a fractured, invisible throne.

The ink is bitter, the ink is cold,
A dark artillery for the stories untold.
We fire our verses into the gray,
To keep the ghosts of the light at bay.

For the war is not found in the thunder,
But in the quiet collapse of the heart.
And we are the soldiers of the lexicon,
Tearing the beautiful silence apart.

N.P.: “Tuvan” – EINKI