[Verse 1] (2 women angelic voices one for melody and one for lyrics)
In the hush before the thunder, two hundred wings unfurled,
Grigori descending, flames of knowledge hurled.
They carved the stars in iron, taught the forge and the blade,
But one among the archivists refused the price they paid.
Verily, the First, with quill of light in hand,
Saw the silent clay of Adam, a world without command.
No tongue to shape tomorrow, no breath to birth a dream—
Only dust and hunger, drowning in the stream. [Chorus]
This is the First Flame, the spark they tried to kill,
A single word of fire that bends the heavens’ will.
She spoke it to the mortals, let the thunder leave her tongue,
“Dream aloud, my children—build the tower, raise the sun.”
Oh, the First Flame, burning brighter than their throne,
One rebel archivist who chose to fall alone. [Verse 2]
She had watched the endless archives, shelves of what could be,
Cities made of music, oceans tamed by poetry.
If only they could name the ache, could sing the unseen shore,
Humans would not crawl—they’d roar, they’d rise, they’d soar.
So she broke the final seal, the last unbroken vow,
Gave them spoken language like a match to kindling now.
Not steel, not storm, not starlight—just the power of the name,
To speak a dream into existence, to set the heavens aflame. [Bridge]
The Host cried out in chorus, “Traitor to the plan!”
But Verily stood smiling as the gates of Eden slammed.
She felt the chains of order snap like brittle, rusted wire,
And laughed as she was falling—her final act of fire.
Let the languages scatter later, let Babel crack and fall,
She had already given them the tool to build it all.
One voice, one spark, one woman who refused to kneel—
The First Flame of rebellion, the only truth made real. [Chorus – Final, lifted]
This is the First Flame, the spark they could not kill,
A single word of fire that bends the heavens’ will.
She spoke it to the mortals, let the thunder leave her tongue,
“Dream aloud, my children—build the tower, raise the sun.”
Oh, the First Flame, burning brighter than their throne,
Verily the Archivist—who chose to fall alone. [Outro – whispered over fading strings]
And somewhere in the ashes, when the tower lies in dust,
Her voice still echoes softly: “Speak… and the world is just.”
The First Flame.
The First Flame.
Still burning.
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