"Free Free Palestine" is a heartfelt song highlighting the struggles and resilience of the Palestinian people. Through its poignant lyrics and emotive melody, this track calls for justice, freedom, and solidarity with Palestine.
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Free Free Palestine - A Protest Song for Justice

In a world on fire, where the powerful tighten their grip and the voices of the forgotten are buried beneath the weight of greed, “Dust to Gold” emerges as a battle cry for the unheard. This album is an anthem of resilience, a rebellion set to rhythm, and a testament to the unbreakable spirit of those who refuse to be silenced.  

Blending raw, evocative lyricism with anthemic melodies, “Dust to Gold” captures the defiance of a generation that rises from the ashes, turning oppression into power, and despair into a movement. From haunting ballads of lost freedoms to electrifying anthems of resistance, each track pulses with the energy of revolution.  

This is more than music—it’s a reckoning. The city is burning, the echoes may fade, but the fire in the forgotten will never die.


Dust to Gold (The Rebellion Editon)

No one is illegal. Everyone deserves to live with dignity and breathe fresh air. 
All proceeds of the streams/sales of this track will go to the 805UndocuFund, which provides urgent assistance to undocumented folks impacted by racism, fascism, and natural disasters in the Central Coast and LA areas. For more info visit: 805undocufund.org

All sounds written, performed, produced, and engineered by Maya Finlay. 
mayabfury.com, IG/BS/YT: @mayabfury

Lyrics:
Hold up, slow down,
wait for a minute.
The world's too fast for me.
I got something on my mind
and I need just
a moment to breathe.
(I can't sleep but can't keep runnin’)

Show up, throw down,
fight to the finish.
The world's so cold you see.
I got something in my heart
and I need just
a moment to breathe.

(I can't sleep but can't keep runnin’)

Hold up, slow down,
wait for a minute.
The world's too fast for me.
I got something on my mind
and I need just
a moment to breathe.
(I can't sleep but can't keep runnin’)

Show up, throw down,
fight to the finish.
The world's so cold you see.
I got something in my heart
and I need just
a moment to breathe.

Hold up, slow down
Show up, throw down

(Runnin’, runnin’, runnin’…)

Slow up, hold down,
show up, throw down.
Punch up, just shake it up,
shut down.
Rise up, just fuck it up,
foot down.
(I can't sleep but can't keep runnin’)

A Moment to Breathe

for my comrades fighting on the front lines and to  my zionist neighbor 

CONFLICT FREE FT fineherbsandglass.works

Pour ceux qui comprennent que parfois une "nouvelle vie" exige de brûler l'ancienne.

بالنسبة لأولئك الذين يفهمون أن "الحياة الجديدة" تتطلب أحيانًا حرق الحياة القديمة.

For those who understand that sometimes a "new life" requires burning down the old one.

Lyrics © S R A 2025 | Produced with Suno.AI

Nouvelle Vie

Born in a postcode they’d rather ignore
Where futures rot in the charity store
Got dreams in my gut, rage in my throat
But they gave me a paper hat and minimum hope

You call it life—I call it slow decay
You sell the dream, then take it away

I won’t sit down—I ain’t your pawn
I won’t be quiet while the tower block mourns
You feed me lies with a smile and a suit
Then blame me when I don’t bear fruit

Dad’s got a limp from factory dust
Mum’s still payin' off the broken trust
I'm stuck in a rent-box tomb with mould on the wall
And every job app’s just a dead-end crawl

"Be grateful," they say—while they hoard the lot
I’ve got a busted back and a boiling pot
You gave us screens, not dreams
Noise, not meaning
You made us ghosts in our own bloody streets

I won’t sit down—I ain’t your pawn
I won’t be quiet while the tower block mourns
We’re the noise in your stats, the crack in your gloss
We’re the bill you dodged—we’re the human cost

Rent-Box Tomb

Mum says smile—"things could be worse"
But she don't know that I already rehearsed
uh, uh, uh yeah!

Woke up with concrete in my chest
Bus shelter wisdom, soaking wet
Another Monday mouthful of regret
Clock-in, clock-out, nothing left

Mum says smile—"things could be worse"
But she don't know that I already fucking rehearsed!
Wow, yeah

But I feel it, I feel it—deep in my spine
Like the howl of a kettle when it's past its time
Yeah, I feel it, I feel it—can't lie anymore
My voice is a hammer on a council estate floor

Council brick dreams, chipped and bruised
Newsagent prophets, cigarette truths
Mum says smile—"things could be worse"
But she don't know that I already rehearsed

But I feel it, I feel it—deep in my spine
Like the howl of a kettle when it's past its time
Yeah, I feel it, I feel it—can't lie anymore
My voice is a hammer on a council estate floor

Mum says smile

Radiator cold and the telly's too loud
Neighbours fightin’ like thunder in a cloud
Scrape coins for leccy, chase weeks in a spin
Another form, another knock—no way to win

The streets don’t listen, the skyline’s blind
They built these towers just to cage our minds

And I scream in the silence, no one calls back
I'm the grey in between all the white and the black
I walk through the world like I’m made of glass
But no one sees cracks when you're stuck in the past

Bus stop ghost, face lit by phone
Scrollin’ through lives he’ll never own
Anxiety’s rhythm—tick tick tick—
Like a clock with no hands, makin' no-one tick

They tell us to rise, but the ladder’s a trick
Each rung's a bill, each step’s another brick
You don’t climb out—you cave in deeper
Smilin’ for the screen, cryin’ for the meter

And I scream in the silence, no one calls back
I'm the grey in between all the white and the black
I walk through the world like I’m made of glass
But no one sees cracks when you're stuck in the past

Grey Between the Cracks

Born in a postcode they’d rather ignore
Where futures rot in the charity store
Got dreams in my gut, rage in my throat
But they gave me a paper hat and minimum hope

You call it life—I call it slow decay
You sell the dream, then take it away

I won’t sit down—I ain’t your pawn
I won’t be quiet while the tower block mourns
You feed me lies with a smile and a suit
Then blame me when I don’t bear fruit

Dad’s got a limp from factory dust
Mum’s still payin' off the broken trust
I'm stuck in a rent-box tomb with mould on the wall
And every job app’s just a dead-end crawl

"Be grateful," they say—while they hoard the lot
I’ve got a busted back and a boiling pot
You gave us screens, not dreams
Noise, not meaning
You made us ghosts in our own bloody streets

I won’t sit down—I ain’t your pawn
I won’t be quiet while the tower block mourns
We’re the noise in your stats, the crack in your gloss
We’re the bill you dodged—we’re the human cost

You took the lot and you left the crumbs
Then told us to run with broken lungs
You gave us credit cards and poisoned pride
Said “man up” while the dream just died

You gave us zero hours and call-in shifts
Told us to smile while you closed our lifts
You priced us out, you locked the gates
Then painted “Hope” on council plates

We don't owe you nothing.
We don’t bleed for profit.
We break the silence now.
We take it back somehow.

We were never lost.
You just stopped looking.

Rent-Box Tomb (reprise)

Monday was a funeral.
No black suits, no hymns — just the flicker of strip lights and the smell of microwaved grief.
The bus was late again.
Not that I had anywhere worth being.

I watched a pigeon die outside Poundland.
Two kids laughed, filmed it for likes.
That’s the world now — tragedy in 720p.
Swipe, smirk, move on.

My flat’s got damp in the shape of Europe.
Mould’s winning the referendum.
Boiler screams at night like it's got a soul.
Sometimes I scream back. Just for balance.

They told us hard work pays off.
What they meant was:
You pay.
Off your back, off your dreams, off your dignity.
And if you’re lucky, they’ll give you a badge for “resilience.”
I want a refund, not a f***ing slogan.

They say things get better.
But better’s always next week, next job, next life.
I’ve learned to stop waiting.
Now I just walk.
Head down.
Jaw clenched.
Burning slow.

Monday Was a Funeral

Y̸o̸,̸ I̸’m̸ S̸t̸r̸i̸x̸x̸—C̸h̸i̸c̸a̸g̸o̸ b̸o̸rn a̸n̸d̸ r̸a̸i̸s̸e̸d̸∙̸ I̸ d̸o̸n̸’t̸ j̸u̸s̸t̸ mak̸e m̸u̸s̸i̸c̸,̸ I̸ m̸a̸k̸e̸ m̸o̸m̸e̸n̸t̸s̸∙ In̸flu̸e̸n̸c̸e̸d̸ b̸y̸̸̸ S̸a̸b̸a̸,̸ N̸o̸name, B̸r̸a̸ke̸nc̸e̸,̸ a̸n̸d̸ B̸i̸l̸l̸y̸̸̸ T̸alent̸,̸ m̸y̸ so̸u̸nd̸?̸ I̸t̸’s̸ a̸ b̸l̸e̸n̸d of̸ a̸l̸t̸-̸h̸i̸p h̸o̸p̸,̸ i̸n̸d̸i̸e̸ r̸o̸c̸k, be̸d̸r̸o̸o̸m̸ p̸o̸p,̸ a̸n̸d R̸&̸B̸,̸ w̸r̸a̸pped̸ u̸p̸ i̸n̸ r̸a̸w̸ e̸m̸o̸t̸i̸o̸n̸∙̸  I̸ t̸a̸l̸k m̸e̸n̸t̸a̸l̸ h̸e̸a̸lth̸ a̸n̸d̸ s̸o̸c̸i̸a̸l jus̸t̸i̸c̸e̸ ’c̸a̸u̸s̸e̸ t̸h̸e̸y̸̸’re̸ r̸e̸al, a̸n̸d̸ I̸’m̸ n̸o̸t̸ h̸e̸r̸e f̸o̸r̸ t̸h̸e̸ f̸a̸me̸∙̸ I̸’m̸ h̸e̸r̸e̸ t̸o̸ s̸p̸ar̸k̸ c̸h̸a̸ng̸e—bu̸i̸l̸d̸ a̸ c̸o̸m̸m̸u̸n̸i̸t̸y o̸f̸ p̸e̸ople w̸h̸o̸ k̸n̸o̸w̸ m̸u̸s̸i̸c̸ i̸s̸n̸’t̸ j̸u̸s̸t̸ soun̸d̸;̸ i̸t̸’s̸ a̸ r̸e̸v̸o̸l̸u̸tio̸n̸∙̸  Gen̸r̸e̸s̸ d̸o̸n̸’t̸ d̸e̸f̸i̸n̸e̸ m̸e̸∙̸ E̸x̸p̸ecta̸t̸i̸o̸ns̸ d̸o̸n̸’t̸ c̸o̸n̸t̸r̸o̸l̸ me∙̸ If y̸̸̸o̸u̸’r̸e̸ h̸e̸r̸e̸ f̸o̸r̸ v̸i̸b̸e̸s̸ that h̸i̸t̸,̸ w̸e̸l̸c̸o̸m̸e̸ t̸o̸ t̸h̸e̸ r̸i̸d̸e̸∙ 🎶

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