In the cold silence of a single person, there is no heat, no chorus, no trembling law. He moves, but one step is not a dance, one drum is not a rhythm, and one single man knows nothing of the fever of the crowd.

A single man wanders in the night, moving alone, yet knowing not its heat not light

For one cannot holds the lord’s flame but dance, Watches the loved ones at a glance.

Fever is born only when the many gather, colliding, trading fragments of their haste, weaving their random paths, into a single, stable, fate.

Let them collide, let them flow, from their chaos, a secret order will grow, thus the Lord will find his throne.

Chaos spreads, and god sings, for heat is but the flutter of the wings.

This measure of warmth is a tale of the crowd, but for this single man, he never had his head bowed

But the one, is silent, he is the only truth.