We are the spark in the blackout night,
bone to bone, star to star, we ignite.
Cracked hearts beat iron, thunder in our veins,
every scar a runway, every shout a plane.
We are made of war cries turned lullabies,
made to rise when the mirror lies.
Hands cut on hope, we braid the pain,
sing our own name—again, again.
We are made, not broken; forged, not fell—
hear the weld of our voices: the clang of becoming well.