[Verse 1]
London is a corpse they cannot bury,
a hollow crown that still makes them wary.
Broken glass where the heartbeat was,
now only echoes of what it does.
But beyond the dead zone, Britain still breathes,
fields still whisper in surviving trees.
Trains still run through fractured lines,
carrying lives past the edge of time.
A nation alive with a poisoned core,
circling something it can’t ignore.
[Pre-Chorus]
They learned to live with a dying place…
but not with the shape it left its face…
[Chorus]
She’s walking through ruin where the capital died,
through London under a vacant sky,
Baba Yaga in Titan bone,
a walking house that thinks it’s home.
A hut on legs that bend and break,
like the world itself forgot how to wake.
And from her sides in blistered seams,
her carrion brood are broken dreams.
[Verse 2]
Up close she’s not wood, not steel, not stone,
but something grown that should’ve stayed alone.
A structure that breathes without lungs or heart,
a moving ruin that falls apart.
Her legs snap angles the earth rejects,
armored joints with wrong reflex.
And every step through empty streets
is a verdict the silence repeats.
And Britain watches from farther ground,
while London drowns without a sound.
[Pre-Chorus]
The country moves but it can’t look back…
not at the wound where the world went black…
[Chorus]
She’s walking through ruin where the capital died,
through London under a vacant sky,
Baba Yaga in Titan bone,
a walking house that thinks it’s home.
A hut on legs that bend and break,
like the world itself forgot how to wake.
And still she breeds from fractured skin,
the winged dead that crawl within.
[Bridge – slow, distant, mournful distortion]
The rivers still move, the fields still grow,
but they all remember what they know—
that somewhere behind the broken crown,
the heart of a nation never came back down.
And she just walks like none of it matters,
through history turned to falling plaster.
[Final Chorus]
She’s walking through ruin where the capital died,
through London under a vacant sky,
Baba Yaga and her walking blight,
a thing that turns the day to night.
A hut on legs that shouldn’t stand,
moving like judgment across the land.
And Britain lives—but not the same…
since London forgot its own name.
ElCeviche
