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Lyrics
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This is how the world endsā¦
Not with a bang⦠but a whimperā¦
We the hollow men, yeah, we the lost souls,
Walkinā through the ruins where the cold wind rolls.
We got heads full of noise, hearts turned to stone,
Livinā in a city where we all die alone.
Shadows in the streets, ghosts in the night,
Tryna find meaning, but we lost our sight.
They tell me pray, but my lips stay sealed,
Aināt no god in the place where the world stands still.
š We just echoes in the dark (Dark)
š No fire, no spark (Gone)
š No voices, no cries (Why?)
š Just empty, hollow eyesā¦
This is how the world ends⦠not with a bang⦠but a whimperā¦
Dead land, cactus sand, no love, just demand,
Prayinā to the stone gods, idols built by hand.
They sell us dreams like they sell despair,
But the streets donāt listen, ācause the truth aināt there.
Between the motion and the act, we fall,
Tryna stand tall, but we crumble like walls.
No leaders, no preachers, just flickers of hope,
But the fire burns out in the thick of the smoke.
“Between the dream and the scheme, thereās a crack in the seams⦔
“Between the thought and the deed, thereās a world that bleeds⦔
Circle round, round, like a ghost parade,
Dancinā in the dust where the lost souls fade.
Five oāclock in the mornā, just wastinā time,
While the world burns slow and we all stay blind.
Canāt fix whatās broken, canāt save whatās lost,
Turned our hearts into steel, but look at the cost.
Is this the way? Is this the plan?
Or we just hollow men, tryna play god with our hands?
š We just echoes in the dark (Dark)
š No fire, no spark (Gone)
š No voices, no cries (Why?)
š Just empty, hollow eyesā¦
This is how the world ends⦠not with a bang⦠but a whimperā¦
Not with a bang⦠but a whimperā¦
The idea#
Eliotās hollow men and whimpering apocalypse are pulled into street ruin: heads full of noise, hearts of stone, cities where everyone dies alone. Prayer seals the lips; no god in the freeze. Echoes in the dark, empty hollow eyesāthe hook as diagnosis.
Between motion and act, dream and scheme, āa crack in the seams,ā a world that bleeds. Ghost parade at five in the morning; idols of hand-built stone; dreams sold beside despair. Rapās aggressive drive suits the inventory of a civilization that cannot fix what it broke and still āplays godā with ruined hands.
The end arrives not as spectacle but as fadeāthe whimper as the only honest volume left.