There was a harbor made of music,

Every window held a song.

Tiny boats with handmade lanterns

Could be noticed all night long.

Sailors gathered by the lighthouse,

Watching names rise with the tide.

Every voice could find an audience,

Every dream a place to hide.

Then one morning something happened,

No one heard the warning bell.

The lighthouse simply vanished,

And nobody could really tell.

They turned the lighthouse off,

Now we're drifting in the fog.

A thousand shining melodies

Are swallowed by the dark.

We're still singing to the ocean,

Still sending sparks above.

But the waves don't carry names anymore,

Only numbers, only dust.

The city built enormous towers

Filled with mirrors and machines.

Every corridor looked brighter,

Every dashboard cleaner, sleek.

But the little painted doorways

Where the wandering people met,

Were removed to make things simpler—

Or at least that's what they said.

Now the square where crowds once gathered

Is an empty marble floor.

Everybody's making music,

But nobody knows who for.

They turned the lighthouse off,

Now we're drifting in the fog.

A thousand shining melodies

Are swallowed by the dark.

We're still singing to the ocean,

Still sending sparks above.

But the waves don't carry names anymore,

Only numbers, only dust.

I met a songwriter in shadows,

Building castles made of sound.

Twenty thousand songs around him,

Yet nobody was around.

He said:

"I don't need a throne or fortune,

I don't need to be a star.

I just miss the passing strangers

Knowing where we artists are."

They turned the lighthouse off,

But the sea keeps rolling on.

The harbor's full of voices,

Though the harbor feels gone.

We're still singing to the ocean,

Still hoping someone sees.

Tiny lanterns in a storm of light,

Lost among infinity.

And somewhere in the darkness,

A small boat keeps its flame.

Not because it's visible—

But because it remembers its name.