"The Legacy” is the third track of my project Spiralize. Dive into the hidden chambers beneath the sands of Egypt — where ancient secrets, forgotten frequencies, and timeless energies echo through the corridors of the pyramids

The Legacy

[Lyrics]

“Step right up, folks, it’s that time of year,
the 208th Excrement Rain of Cheer.
Last year the prudes shut it all down—
muttered ‘cholera’ and ‘sickening town’.
But the Heritage Club stood proud and tall,
crying, ‘Two hundred years, we cannot let it fall!’
The ministry smiled, said, ‘We’ll co-sponsor the stink—
public funds for the glory of this holy brink.’”

You wrap your madness in a history bow,
call it “heritage” so you never outgrow.


Holy legacy, holy shit,
if you can’t say why, then it is not.
Tradition’s just an alibi you wear to dodge the thought—
is it needed or not? That’s the only shot.
If all it gives is plague and pride,
let the “sacred custom” choke and die.



Old men polishing a sewage crown,
“Without this rite, our town breaks down.”
They spray perfume on septic years,
drown the stench in patriotic tears.
“Look, the state believes in our cause,
they pay the bills, they clap, they pause.”
But power loves a circus ring—
keep the herd distracted, they won’t change a thing.

You call it culture, but it’s just decay,
a fossil with a PR day.


Holy legacy, holy shit,
if you can’t say why, then it is not.
Tradition’s just an alibi for cowards scared of thought—
is it needed or not? Answer that or rot.
If all it spreads is filth and shame,
stop engraving it with your father’s name.



Children cough in the holy fog,
flies make halos in the bog.
“Hold your nose and clap on three—
this is our identity.”
You pass infection like a flag,
call it “roots” while futures sag.
“Since our elders bathed in waste,
we must keep the sacred taste.”

Pain in costume is still just pain,
a curse that marches down the chain.


Holy legacy, holy shit,
if you can’t say why, then it is not.
Tradition’s just an alibi when reason’s gone to pot—
is it needed or not? That’s the only plot.
If all it does is chain the young,
let that anthem leave your tongue.



If you stripped the word “tradition” from this scene,
you’d call it madness, not “our dream”.
If it started now, you’d scream and run,
but stamp it “old” and it’s suddenly fun.
“Always” is the laziest law,
“we’ve always done it” is rot in the core.
Necessity is the only plea—
everything else is coward’s decree.

Ritual without reason is a cage in disguise,
a corpse on a throne, wearing yesterday’s eyes.


Holy legacy, holy shit,
if you can’t say why, then it is not.
Ask one question: “Who is healed? Who is hurt? Who is bought?”
Is it needed or not? That’s the final shot.
Burn the script that poisons breath,
let dead customs meet their death.


What matters is will and what future you feed—
never worship chains,
never crown a rotten deed.

Legacy of Sacred

[Lyrics]

Four men brag around a dying fire,
feeding ghosts to their own desire.
“One time, I dropped a bear with my hands.”
“I lived with beauties in foreign lands.”
“I was the mind beside the king.”
“I owned a golden palace, everything.”
Their voices swell like they’re born to rule—
steel on their ankles quietly laughs at these fools.

The door is cracked, the sky is real,
but you kneel to the whip and call it a deal.


Withered limbs, corrupted minds,
no will for freedom, no battle lines.
You’d rather rot than break the frame,
a slave of comfort, loyal to the game.
No urge to rise, no fists to raise—
you die on your knees while singing your praise.



Four slaves whisper in the factory night,
hands like weapons, eyes sharp as light.
“I was the strongest fighter in the land.”
“I am the thief—no lock withstands my hand.”
“I see everything; nothing gets by me.”
“And with us four, we could all get free.”
The last one speaks like a spark in the dark,
three of them laugh and go out with the spark:
“Tomorrow’s work is a mountain high—
we’ll dream of escape, but we won’t try.”

The door is cracked, the sky is real,
but you kneel to the whip and call it a deal.


Withered limbs, corrupted minds,
no will for freedom, no battle lines.
You’d rather rot than break the frame,
a slave of comfort, loyal to the game.
No urge to rise, no fists to raise—
you die on your knees while singing your praise.



You clutch the past like a sacred brand,
“Since I was broken, they should be too,” you demand.
You call it “tough love,” call it “the way”—
it’s just your pain you’re passing away.
To freeze the world where you were bruised,
is spitting on lives you haven’t yet used.
Refusing change, you chain the dawn—
and stab tomorrow while you carry on.

The door is cracked, the sky is real,
but you kneel to the whip and call it a deal.


Withered limbs, corrupted minds,
no will for freedom, no battle lines.
You’d rather rot than break the frame,
a slave of comfort, loyal to the game.
No urge to rise, no fists to raise—
you die on your knees while singing your praise.



Your chains aren’t trophies, your legends are dust,
no glory survives if it blooms out of rust.
Past-life stories in a rented cage—
there’s nothing to boast in a rigged-out stage.
Inside this system, every “win” is a lie;
you farm fake honor and forget how to defy.


So shatter the game, let the rules cave in,
carve your own law in your bone and skin.
No need for masters, no thrones, no kings—
burn down the script, rewrite everything.

Only will is sacred—everything else is chain.
Never praise your shackles,
never glorify your pain.

Slave of Freedom

madness combat type beat

This smooth and calming track is meant to play softly in the background. Soft ambient piano and light spacey pad. Peaceful and soulful, perfect for relaxing, reflecting, work background, spa, yoga or other meditative soundscapes. Contemplate thoughts of life and love.
Full version: https://soundcloud.com/zevweinstein/calm-interlude

Calm Interlude Piano

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This smooth and calming track is meant to play softly in the background. Soft ambient piano, exotic birbyne reed instrument and light spacey pad. Peaceful and soulful, perfect for relaxing, reflecting, work background, spa, yoga or other meditative soundscapes. Contemplate thoughts of life and love.
Piano solo version: https://soundcloud.com/zevweinstein/calm-interlude-piano

Calm Interlude

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432 Hz Echoes of Unity

They wanna hide the cries beneath the screen light
Cover up the genocide to keep us pacified

We won’t look away, we won’t surrender sight
Shine through every shadow, bring the truth to life

Ghosts of Gaza

[Lyrics]

They call it “overcrowded” from their towers in the sky
Counting every poor kid like a crime they can’t deny
“Breeders in the gutter, parasites below”
Write us off as numbers in their Malthusian glow
Every broken window, every siren in the night
Pinned on all the nameless faces far from neon light

But the ones you blame keep the cities breathing
Mop up the blood while the rich keep feeding
Hands in the dark hold the whole world up
You never see them, but they never stop


In your brave new world, who cleans the filth you make?
Who scrubs the shit from the boots of the great?
Who takes the needles from your holy streets?
Who hides the bodies so you can sleep?
In your brave new world, tell me, golden boys and girls—
Who cleans the filth in your brave new world?



After the purge, the skyline’s blinding white
Polished glass and cameras, sterilized daylight
You crown your “pure ones”, saints in tailored suits
Buried all the bodies, but you can’t burn the roots
Second-class angels in janitor blue
Next in line for heaven’s trash is always someone like you

In this “perfect” world, one scratch is a verdict
One tiny record and you’re no longer worth it
Every little blemish branded on your skin
“Stain on the order” — throw ’em in the bin


What kind of brave new world hunts scars like prey?
Spits on the sinner for one wrong day?
Branding the broken as less than dirt
Calling that justice while you stay unhurt
What kind of brave new world? Don’t kid me with that word—
I’ve seen this shit before, this “brave new world”.



Now the “lower” ones you spared to scrub your floors
Drown their quiet screaming behind locked doors
Pills on the table, powder in their lungs
Trading out tomorrow for a few more seconds numb
You built your crystal kingdom, but the cracks still spread
Different crown, same rot, just painted white instead

Same old poison in a brighter bottle
Same old masters, same dead model
The air still stinks though the streets look clean
Your holy order’s just a crueler machine


What kind of brave new world leaves souls to crawl?
Calls them “waste” and lets them fall?
You tightened the noose, then dare call it grace
Just more decay in a prettier place
What kind of brave new world? Say it again, you cowards—
It’s not a brave new world, just braver in its rot.



Your gospel of the chosen is a violent lie
This earth was never meant in black and white divided skies
The canvas of existence isn’t yours to own
It’s made of every shade that’s ever bled and ever grown
You’re not the hand of God, you’re just a frightened child
Afraid of all the colors that won’t fit your sterile smile


Elites are only colors burning bright
Flares of gold and silver in the light
But a painting made of nothing but the glow
Is flat and dead with nowhere left to go

We need the greys, the bruised, the dull, the scarred
The muddy tones, the lives that came out hard
All of these hues in the same wide frame
That’s where the real, true beauty is made
Your brave new world is just a canvas torn—
The whole damn spectrum is where worlds are born.

Brave New World

[Lyrics]

You sit above the city in your glass-and-marble throne
Preaching market gospel like you forged the world alone
Calling every dirty job “replaceable” at best
While the ones who keep you breathing never get to rest
You stand a little higher, think that makes you more
But altitude is just a number, not a moral core

An élite should be the first to lift the ones who fall
Run beside the slowest step, not dance above them all
If you won’t share the burden, if you won’t share the strain
You’re not a guiding star, you’re just extra weight and chain


Noble rot on the vine, deadweight on our backs
Golden skin, but inside just cracks
You call it merit, but it’s pure self-love
Rotting in the rafters while you sing “above, above”
Every role is sacred in this breathing human frame
You’re not the hand of heaven, you’re just ballast in the flame
Noble rot, deadweight—
We carry you, and you dare call that “fate”.



No work is ever “easy” when it holds a world in place
From the night-shift nurse to the ones who clean your waste
Yet you price their lives in crumbs and call your hoard “deserved”
As if the sun rose daily just because you were preserved
The system polished you like some exclusive stone
Refined the art of spoiling you and left you there to throne

You weren’t born a monster, you were seasoned by the scheme
Fed on praise and profit till you swallowed every dream
The ladder pulled behind you, you renamed it “natural law”
All the hands that built it vanish from your flawless lore


Noble rot on the vine, deadweight on the hull
Shiny wine for castles, poison at the root and skull
You say “we move the markets, we’re the brains, we’re the few”
But ships don’t sail on captains, they move on every crew
No job is less than worthy when it keeps collapse at bay
You’re not closer to the heavens, you’re just in the damn way
Noble rot, deadweight—
Civilization won’t survive your weight.



Time sharpened up the system till corruption fits like silk
Turned élite into a mirror dripping honey, blood, and milk
You toast your own reflection, call it “vision”, call it “plan”
While the ones beneath your tower hold the sky up with their hands
Every year the gulf grows wider, every year you praise the gap
As if dragging chains behind us was some necessary map

But progress isn’t measured by how high you stack the throne
It’s how few are left in darkness, how few are left alone
If “success” means leaving millions choking in the dust
Then your shining crown is nothing but a symbol of mistrust


Noble rot on the vine, deadweight on the rails
You weigh down every future till the engine coughs and fails
You’re not the light of history, you’re fog around the sun
A parasite that thinks it is the one who makes things run
Every soul has equal worth beneath this fragile sky
Your halo is a story, not a reason to stand high
Noble rot, deadweight—
Cut the chain or watch the whole thing break.



An élite is not a title, it’s a vow you choose to keep
To bend down to the lowest place and lift the buried deep
If you will not run beside us, then get off this fragile cart
You don’t deserve the wheels if you won’t feel the weight and start
You are not the master of the heavens, just a speck against the blue
If you shine but never shelter, we don’t need that light from you


You’re just one color in a painting far too vast to hold your name
And alone, your brilliant pigment makes a flat and lifeless frame
The worth of every worker is the canvas, broad and wide
Not the little streak of glitter clawing for the brightest side

Deadweight dressed in noble rot, your era’s running out
The world was never meant to orbit one small ring of clout
We’ll write a different meaning for the word élite at last—
Those who walk with every color, not the ones who hoard the past.

Noble rot & Deadweight

Spiralize is an emerging producer and DJ in the world of Progressive and Psytrance music.

All songs are released into the public domain. 
Please feel free to download them.
No need to credit me, and you're even free to sell it if you like.
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I am a bacterium with mycolic acid on its surface.
I will damage your lungs.
And..... Smash commercialism.

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Based in Los Angeles, Zev Weinstein's varied musical background includes classical training, studio work, and stage performances for both Rock and Jazz bands as well as Theatrical productions. A love of ethnic music sounds and techniques embody much of his work, which includes World, Dramatic, Orchestral, Americana, Rock, Jazz, Ambient, and Country genres, among others. His music is featured in TV cues and steadily disseminated throughout various media venues. BMI IP# 00143400321

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