Beneath a blue and velvet skyline,
lie the buried ruins of grandmother’s dreams—
a cactus fence dividing heaven from hell,
where stress deepens, and whispers keep secrets.
Yet still, we sing—of us, of light,
of the newness rising with the day.

The King’s song is always playing—
a rhythm spun from his sacred guitar.
From his hand, dreams are strummed
into color, into healing:
bloodstream over bloodstream,
muscle into bone,
and humanity becomes free again.

But time, relentless, steals the rings of planets.
The oceans of stars fall like ash from heaven,
islands of gold dissolve to dust,
and people collapse into longing.
All wisdom seems lost—
yet moonlight remains,
and still, the King’s dreams set us free.

So come—
Sing.
If we sing his song,
our hearts will grow like the giant trees of Brazil,
and the river of hope will flow full and perfect.

Dance beneath this promise.
Lift your voice like starlight.
Pour your wine and give me your heart—
for His love carries us,
and beneath this red rooftop,
we may rest without fear.

Can you see it?
The ocean mirrored in the sky
above the Brazilian shore,
resting and healing the soul of the green earth.
So let me hold you.

Like your wedding ring,
my voice will shine in the quiet of the broken night.
You’ll feel the ocean of memories
right here—
in my hand.

Let my voice unlock creation,
echoing the language of your dreams and desire.
For I love you.

And now—
see the moonlight reigning over the stars,
painting grace into the still night.

As the moon stands crowned with power,
so too shall I open the gates of our dreams—
as your King.