HE PULLED THE CURTAIN

The chamber spoke in thunder and flame,

a voice stitched together from smoke and command.

Fire pronounced names it had memorized,

and shadows obeyed without knowing why.

Crowns lowered themselves.

Silence practiced fear.

The room agreed to believe

what it was told to see.

But near the floor,

where truth still moves on instinct,

something small tilted its head

and listened with its body instead of belief.

Illusions grow tall

when no one stands close enough

to touch them.

He pulled the curtain.

Not with courage — with instinct.

Not with anger — with indifference.

And the god collapsed

into a man with shaking hands.

He pulled the curtain.

And thunder forgot its lines.

No prophecy carved his outline.

No legend waited for his name.

He didn’t speak of destiny

or negotiate with spectacle.

He moved because lies smell wrong

when you’re close enough to the ground.

Empires rehearse their voices.

Truth does not rehearse.

It waits

until someone reaches out

and proves the sound is hollow.

He pulled the curtain.

And the fire had no teeth.

He pulled the curtain.

And the great voice needed wires.

What towers on spectacle

falls to a tug.

What rules by distance

dies when touched.

Before belief, there is knowing.

Before knowing, there is sensing.

Before sensing, there is the body

refusing to obey the lie.

Not all gods are slain by swords.

Some are undone

by something too small

to be impressed.

FINAL CHORUS

He pulled the curtain.

And the room learned how fragile power is.

He pulled the curtain.

And fear lost its voice.

The lie needed distance.

The truth needed touch.

And the smallest instinct

ended the longest performance.

And when the world went quiet,

nothing crowned him.

Nothing thanked him.

Because truth does not reward.

It simply remains

once the curtain is gone.