
Title: “Saffron Tide , Rusted Chains”

Born of salt and revolution, now they sell us fake solutions,  
Slogans louder than the sea, drownin' out our constitution.  
Caste lines drawn in digital code,  
While heritage gets bulldozed for a villa abode.  

They point fingers — “Urban Naxal,” that’s the tag,  
When you question the state, they plant a red flag.  
But we ain't blind in this paradise zone,  
We see the cracks in the Portuguese stone.
 
🔥 Burn the silence, raise your voice,  
We were born to fight, not born by choice.  
Rusted chains in the coastal breeze,  
Now we scream truth through the casuarina trees.  

They're rewriting our stories, pixel by pixel,  
Erasing our past with the swing of a sickle.  
“We'll wipe the culture,” the CM declared,  
But whose culture, bro? The people are scared.  

Tourists pour in, but the locals drain out,  
Concrete dreams on the ancestral route.  
Land grabs, scams, backdoor deals,  
But they bless it all in Sunday zeal.

We’re not your postcard, not your theme park show,  
We’re the voice in the cracks where the mangroves grow.

⚡ Goa, don't sleep — you're the frontline flame,  
Between the saints and the suits, it’s a deadly game.  
Turn the bass up, break their disguise,  
Truth don’t bow to saffron lies.
  
Freedom ain’t a relic you lock in the fort,  
It's the drumbeat on streets when the people retort.  
This ain’t just about Left or Right,  
It’s fishermen’s rights, and women’s fight.  

Religious smoke screens, political thrillers,  
Meanwhile they party with the drug trade killers.  
But the youth ain’t fooled by the hashtag war,  
We're planting flags that mean way more.

Whispers of the old town...  
Monsoon blood on the battleground...  
We are not your silent crowd...  
WE. WON'T. BACK. DOWN.

🔥 Goa, don’t sleep — wake up and rise,  
From the Carnival mask to the courtroom lies.  
Steel your spirit, hold the line,  
This ain’t the end — it’s reclaim time.

From the river to the ridge, from the spice to the sand,  
We ain’t giving up — this is our land.  
Not red, not saffron, not white-washed pain...  
We're the voice of the monsoon — loud like rain.



Saffron Tide, Rusted Chains

Title: Ghosts of the Morning


I gave ‘em everything…
And still, they asked for more.


Woke up on a mattress full of headlines and regrets
Dead friends in my inbox, newsfeed cigarettes
They said fight like a lion, die with pride on your breath
But nobody taught me what to do with what’s left

I'm the mural in the alley, the slogan they spray
But I can’t look in the mirror when the rage melts away
I gave ‘em poetry and protest, the light and decay
But this body ain't a battleground — it's begging to pray


I see ghosts of the morning / Marching out my chest
Breathe in silence like a warning / This war don't let me rest
I gave it all — my voice, my skin / But I don’t know who I’ve been
Am I the fight or just the fire that fades within?


I been sleepin' in my shoes, dreams heavy with names
Tryna carry the dead, but I’m breaking my frame
They said “You’re the future,” but I feel like the flame
That lights up the sky just before it gets tame

I ain't fearless, just numb, with a pen in my fist
Every lyric’s a grave I refuse to resist
Yeah, they love you when you bleed but forget when you drift
Now I'm yelling in the dark, just to know I exist

I see ghosts of the morning / Marching out my chest
Breathe in silence like a warning / This war don't let me rest
I gave it all — my voice, my skin / But I don’t know who I’ve been
Am I the fight or just the fire that fades within?
I used to scream for the crowd
Now I whisper for the ones who never made it back
We are not broken
Just burnt —
But still burning.


Just ashes in the wind…
Still trying to rise.
Still trying to rise.

Ghosts of the Morning

Title: Concrete Bloom

I was planted, not placed.
Buried, not broken.
Watered by silence, fed by smoke —
And still, I bloomed in the choke.

Cracks in the pavement spell out my name,
Ghost of the riot, still playing the game.
No banner in hand, just scars in my chest,
No slogans now — just breath and unrest.

They wanted a martyr, I gave ’em a map,
Showed ‘em the roots that twist through the trap.
I don't carry flags, I carry the weight,
Of every closed door they said was fate.

Beneath every statue, there’s soil that groans,
Under each anthem, a field of bones.
But I walk like a whisper through concrete veins,
A bloom with a pulse and rust in my chains.

From concrete bloom, I rise in rust,
Dirt in my lungs, but I breathe in trust.
The light don’t scream — it hums through pain,
I ain’t a rebel, I’m the seed in the rain.

No loud hallelujah, no marching drum —
Just a heartbeat soft as the morning sun.

If you’re looking for heroes, look beneath dust —
Where silence grows loud, and bloom we must.


I don’t chase thrones, I decompose kings,
Make mulch from their myths, plant future things.
This ain’t revolution — this is rotation,
This is healing dressed like detonation.

I sip from the cup of forgotten gods,
Mix holy with hurt in lightning rods.
I’m the prayer they never wrote down right,
Tattooed in ash, spitting verses at night.

Power don’t scream now — it sits in the soil,
Brewing its vengeance in ritual coil.
I'm not broken — I’m breaking the mold,
With hands full of roots and fire gone cold.

I wasn’t meant to make it.
But here I stand —
not whole,
not healed,
but growing anyway.

They built walls —
I found light through the cracks.
They buried us —
and called it peace.

We are the flowers in the machine.
The softness they couldn’t kill.


From concrete bloom, I rise in rust,
No crown, no throne — just earth and dust.

I ain’t your symbol, I ain’t your saint,
I’m the shadow behind your restraint.

No loud hallelujah, no marching drum —
Just a fire that whispers, “we’re not done.”

And if you're lost in the ruins, looking for proof—

Check the bloom.

Check the bloom.

We’re still here.
Still growing.
Still true.

Concrete Bloom

Title: Dreams With Teeth

We don’t pray no more —
we code.

We don’t sleep —
we reboot.

Our dreams don’t float.
They bite.

I dream like a riot with rhythm,
Teeth sharp from the silence I’m given.
Wired on purpose, battery breath,
Signal in the static, I glitch through death.

No throne, no gods — just neon bones,
Truth in the cracks of collapsing phones.
They sold me tomorrow in banner ads,
But I bought my future back in scraps.

I don’t chant — I encrypt.
Every verse, a microchip.
Every bar, a backdoor hack,
Every line: reclaim, attack.

These dreams got teeth, they snarl and feed,
Not soft, not sweet — just born to bleed.

Hope ain’t clean, it’s rust and rage,
It’s code in chains, it’s burning sage.

Bite down. Plug in. Don't sleep too deep—
Even in silence...
the dreamers speak.

They wanted prophets who whisper prayers,
Not ghosts who climb electric stairs.
But I rise in the surge of the afterworld,
Braided data in a rebel curl.

My dreams ain’t velvet. They’re razored glass.
Cutting through timelines built to collapse.
I inhale firewalls, exhale smoke,
Bite down on futures they tried to choke.

I ain’t the future you forecasted,
I’m the echo your servers blasted.
A glitch in your empire’s neon grid —
Still dreaming wild... still dreaming big.

We bloom where the code breaks.
We howl where the light fades.

They tried to mute the signal...

But we became it.

We became it.

These dreams got teeth — they bite back truth,
Rewired rage with bulletproof roots.

I don’t kneel, I seed the sky,
With black box wings, and wires that cry.

Bite down. Plug in. Don’t blink, don’t sleep.
The future is feral...

And we’re the teeth.

We don’t wait for utopia.
We upload it.
We bleed into the machine,

And make it dream us back.

Dreams With Teeth

Title: The Sound Between the Stones

I didn’t flinch when the glass hit the ground
I studied the silence
like a map drawn in bruises


They built cathedrals out of war cries
I lit candles in the ruins,
whispered psalms to the smoke —
the sky don’t answer, but it listens.

I walked where echoes feared to follow,
picked prayers out of gravel
with fingers blistered from holding in
every word I never threw.


This is the sound between the stones
where the truth hums low in the bone
where the fight folds quiet into grace
and silence speaks with a burning face.

Let the noise pass like thunder’s breath
I’m the stillness that survives the wreck.


They thought I broke when I bowed my head —
nah, I was planting thunder.
Truth grows teeth underground.
Faith is a weapon carved in surrender.

I’ve lost gods, found ghosts,
prayed to mirrors, burned my throat
on the name I wasn’t given —
and still, I sang.


I’m not the war
I’m what waits after.
The page they tore
but couldn’t master.

I’m the breath between the bricks they threw —
a hymn, a hush,
a storm subdued.


This is the sound between the stones
a still fire, a sacred unknown
not rage, not rest — but something wide
that opens the sky from the inside.

Don’t mistake my silence for sleep.
I am not resting.
I am remembering.
And when I speak…
it won’t be with a mouth.
It’ll be with everything.

The Sound Between the Stones

In this gallery of ghosts,
Every silence is framed.
We walk past lives like exhibits...
‘Cause even dreams rot when you lock 'em away.

There’s a room where I said yes.
Another where I ran.
One with a child I never held
Another with a mic I never grabbed.

There’s a kiss that lived in theory,
A war I never fought,
There’s a version of me
That still believes in God...

And he’s humming in the corner —
but he’s out of tune and high,
Tuning a broken sitar
Under ultraviolet sky.

Do you feel it?
The echoes in the dome?
The whispers of a self
You’ll never call home.

This is the Museum!
Of what we never were!
Of fists that stayed pockets
Of screams that never stirred!

Hallways of heartbreak!
Glass-cased "Almost"s!
Truth turned vapor
And futures turned ghosts!

I saw my twin in the mirror — glitchin’ like a goddamn myth,
He said, “You traded gold for silence, now you’re rich with 'What if’s.”
Another me held protest signs, another sold the code,
Another one married the skyline and carved truth into stone.

Another self is laughing — barefoot in a field,
Another's just a number, part of someone else's deal.
So what’s the cost of choice when your voice still echoes?
In halls built of maybe, in time’s cracked ghettos.

Turn back the clocks.
Then smash them in slow motion.
Drown in the ink of unwritten devotion.
We are only the paths we never picked...
And the versions of us that didn’t exist.

This is the Museum!
Of what we never were!
Of fists that stayed pockets
Of screams that never stirred!

Hallways of heartbreak!
Glass-cased "Almost"s!
Truth turned vapor
And futures turned ghosts!

If you listen long enough,
you’ll hear yourself... leaving.

The Sound Between the Stones

Floyd Santimano

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