This song is a heartbreaking monologue from someone buried in isolation and silence. The protagonist screams not to be heard, but to prove they still exist. Their voice, once ignored, becomes their final act of resistance — not madness, not weakness, but survival. This isn’t crying; it’s a wounded soul trying to break through a world that keeps looking away.

没人听见　我叫

声音卡在喉里　一寸寸烧

你走过　你没回头

我不是没说　我只是学会静静地吼

我在窗下　对着一堵墙说话

墙沉默　像极了你的回答

夜风吹进骨头里　把我心挖空

我只剩下声音　但没人要听懂

我问：活着是不是一种错觉？

他们说：闭嘴

我喊：疼不疼有人看见吗？

他们说：别喊，会吓到别人

城市是巨大的囚室

我每喊一声　回音都冷得像石头

你说别哭　我早就不会哭

但我会叫　会用最后一点气叫出自己的名字

孤苦叫　不是哭

孤苦叫　是活着最后的温度

你听不见　我早预料

但这声音　会在风里　一直绕

没人听见　我叫

声音卡在喉里　一寸寸烧

你走过　你没回头

我不是没说　我只是学会静静地吼

我试过安静　试过让自己变透明

我试过写字代替尖叫　但笔也怕我哭得太狠

你说这样不该　但你什么都没给我留下

除了这口　深不见底的夜

孤苦叫　不是哭

孤苦叫　是活着最后的温度

你听不见　我早预料

但这声音　会在风里　一直绕

这不是病　这是遗言

我不是疯　我只是无人可还原

你走了　我没追

我只留下声音　在这里拼命碎裂

你们怕吵　但你们更怕真话

所以我用尖叫　证明我还有话可说

孤苦叫　不是哭

孤苦叫　是活着最后的温度

你听不见　我早预料

但这声音　会在风里　一直绕

孤苦叫　不是哭

孤苦叫　是活着最后的温度

你听不见　我早预料

但这声音　会在风里　一直绕

孤苦叫　不是哭

孤苦叫　不是哭

我还在叫 不是给你听

English Translation:

No one hears me — I cry out.

The sound burns, inch by inch, stuck in my throat.

You passed by — you didn’t turn back.

It’s not that I didn’t speak — I just learned to scream silently.

I speak to a wall beneath the window.

It stays silent — just like your reply.

The night wind digs into my bones, hollowing out my heart.

I’m left with only a voice — and no one to hear it.

I asked: is being alive just an illusion?

They said: shut up.

I shouted: does it hurt? Can anyone see?

They said: stop yelling, you’ll scare people.

The city is a giant prison.

Every cry echoes back as cold as stone.

You told me not to cry — but I stopped long ago.

What I still do is scream — using my last breath to shout out my name.

This cry of loneliness — it’s not a sob.

It’s the final warmth of staying alive.

You can’t hear it — I already knew.

But this voice will keep echoing in the wind.

No one hears me — I cry out.

The sound burns, inch by inch, stuck in my throat.

You passed by — you didn’t turn back.

It’s not that I didn’t speak — I just learned to scream silently.

I tried being quiet, tried turning invisible.

I tried replacing my screams with writing — but even the pen feared how hard I cried.

You said this isn’t right — but you left me nothing,

except this mouth — swallowed by a bottomless night.

This cry of loneliness — it’s not a sob.

It’s the final warmth of staying alive.

You can’t hear it — I already knew.

But this voice will keep echoing in the wind.

It’s not a sickness — it’s a last will.

I’m not mad — I just can’t be pieced back together.

You left — I didn’t chase.

I only left behind this voice — breaking itself into shards.

You fear noise — but you fear truth even more.

So I scream — to prove I still have something to say.

This cry of loneliness — it’s not a sob.

It’s the final warmth of staying alive.

You can’t hear it — I already knew.

But this voice will keep echoing in the wind.

This cry of loneliness — it’s not a sob.

It’s the final warmth of staying alive.

You can’t hear it — I already knew.

But this voice will keep echoing in the wind.

This cry of loneliness — it’s not a sob.

It’s not a sob.

I’m still screaming — but not for you to hear.