the second floor
There is a room beneath the room,
a voice beneath the sound.
There is a truth you never name
when listening eyes surround.
One word for those who hold the door,
one word you keep inside.
You learn to speak in harmony
with everything you hide.
New York lights through hotel glass,
a thousand faces stare.
They hand you lines you didn’t write,
and tell you why you’re there.
A question rises from the crowd,
too sharp to turn away.
Do you condemn the songs you love?
You look ahead.
You say:
Yes.
And somewhere underneath that word
another answer stays.
Not every silence means consent,
not every „yes“ obeys.
There’s a second floor beneath the sound,
a hidden room where truth is found.
One voice for them, one voice for you,
both of them speaking, neither untrue.
When every word is watched and weighed,
you learn the language of the shade.
They hear the anthem, loud and clear.
You hear the warning underneath.
Drums are marching into light,
the brass declares the day.
A victory written in advance,
a smile arranged to stay.
The hall erupts, the people rise,
the triumph fills the air.
But is it joy, or is it pain
forced upward like a prayer?
The censor listens for a note
that doesn’t fit the line.
So give him something he can praise
and hide the rest in time.
A dissonance can be condemned.
A secret can’t be proved.
So let the surface stand at attention
while something underneath still moves.
There’s a second floor beneath the sound,
a hidden room where truth is found.
One voice for them, one voice for you,
both of them speaking, neither untrue.
When every word is watched and weighed,
you learn the language of the shade.
They hear the anthem, loud and clear.
You hear the warning underneath.
Who is listening?
Who decides?
Who is living
on the other side?
Now the watcher has no uniform,
no doorway, desk or name.
No face above the theatre box,
no single hand to blame.
We build the files ourselves tonight,
we feed the endless screen.
Every touch remembered there,
every place we’ve been.
We change the words, we bend the signs,
we speak around the wire.
But every code becomes a code
the moment they inquire.
And every time we trim ourselves
before the sentence starts,
the watcher doesn’t need the room.
He’s already in our hearts.
Two in one.
The voice outside.
The voice within.
Two in one.
The public word.
The private hymn.
If they can see
everything you show,
keep one small room
they’ll never know.
If they can hear
everything you say,
keep one true voice
that doesn’t fade.
D – E-flat – C – B.
Four notes.
A name without a word.
D – E-flat – C – B.
Four notes.
Still heard.
Three days hidden among the hills,
four voices in a room.
A dedication printed clean,
another underneath the tune.
For all the dead, the title says.
For me, the music cries.
Two meanings on a single page.
Neither one denies.
No monument of marble stone,
no speech beneath a flag.
Just four small notes that say a name
where language starts to crack.
There’s a second floor beneath the sound,
a hidden room they never found.
One voice for them, one voice for you,
holding a line between the two.
When every word is watched and weighed,
don’t let the inner voice decay.
They hear the anthem, loud and clear.
You hear yourself beneath.
There’s a second floor beneath the sound.
Protect the room they haven’t found.
For when the watcher knows your face
and every word leaves one more trace,
the final freedom may begin
with keeping someone else within.
The question isn’t:
Are they listening?
They are.
The question is:
When the room falls silent…
can you still hear yourself?
D – E-flat – C – B.
S.
Song: https://www.ganjingworld.com/s/GlZow82Rww