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Song Info
Track Files
MP3
MP3 14.8 MB • 320 kbps • 6:28
Lossless
WAV 71.0 MB
Lyrics
Verse 1
The fields rise before dawn,
and so do we.
Bent backs, blistered palms,
our shadows stitched to the dirt.
The sun burns through our bodies like time,
and the hours grow tall like weeds.
Every breath tastes of iron and soil,
and still, we keep sowing.
Bridge 1
We are the hands that plant the world,
but never touch its harvest.
We are the hunger that feeds abundance,
the ache that builds the feast.
Our sweat drips into the roots of profit,
and gold blooms where our blood falls.
They call that prosperity.
We call it survival.
Refrain
We are the fields that never rest,
tilled by greed,
watered by need.
We grow their wealth in endless rows,
but we reap only exhaustion.
Verse 2
They pave our soil and call it progress.
They sell our time in hourly portions.
We are the crop and the fertilizer both,
feeding a system that swallows us whole.
The machines hum hymns of efficiency,
but the music is made of our bones.
The factory lights never go dark,
and neither do the debts.
Bridge 2
In the offices above,
they sip comfort from cups of our labor.
They speak of productivity
as if it were sacred scripture.
But every minute we sell
buys them another heaven.
And we,
we are left counting minutes
like seeds we’ll never plant again.
Chorus
Oh, the fields that never rest,
they ache beneath the weight of want.
They grow the world,
but are never allowed to bloom.
They give and give and give,
until even the soil forgets its name.
How long can a heart keep beating
when it’s buried this deep?
Verse 3
We learned to smile while starving,
to thank them for the crumbs.
They say hard work is virtue,
but only when it’s ours.
Their success was born from our calluses,
their fortunes carved from our fatigue.
And when we break,
they call it attrition.
When we fight,
they call it unrest.
But we were never resting.
Bridge 3
Once we dreamed of days off and dignity,
but dreams don’t feed the hungry.
We prayed to fairness,
but fairness was outsourced long ago.
The harvest always belongs to someone else,
and the season never ends.
Every dawn is a debt,
every sunset an invoice.
And yet,
the earth still remembers us.
It always does.
Chorus
We are the fields that never rest.
Our bodies are the furrows of history.
Our breath is the wind through the wheat.
We grow the towers that scrape the sky,
but our homes crumble in the dust.
We are told we are free,
but freedom doesn’t come with shifts.
Freedom doesn’t punch a clock.
Verse 4
Sometimes, at dusk, the fields go quiet.
For a moment, it feels like peace.
Then the machines start again,
singing the hymn of endless production.
We hum along because we must,
but under our breath, another song grows,
a song made of rust and rebellion,
a song that remembers the sound of rest.
Bridge 4
If you listen closely,
you can hear the soil whisper back.
It says, “You are not the harvest.
You are the seed.
And someday,
the fields will rise.
Outro
We are the fields that never rest,
but rest will come.
When the hands that feed the world
finally claim their hunger as holy,
and the soil turns itself inside out
to cradle its forgotten children.
On that day, the crops will grow wild,
and the world will tremble,
because the fields will stop.
And silence will sound like freedom.
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