[Intro]
[Cello carries the circuit motif beneath a single sustained organ chord.]

You know the hour I wake.
You know the road I take.
You know the words I hide.
You do not know my child.

[Verse 1]
At midnight I review the feed,
Frame by frame, what others need
Removed before the morning shift--
The threat, the woond, the falling cliff.
I mark the violence, blur the face,
Then send the evidence to space.
A timer judges every choice;
Ten seconds for a human voice.

[Chorus]
Platform gods, you know our faces,
Sort our grief in rented spaces.
Sell our names by postal codes,
Bless the kings who own the roads.
Platform gods, you count our need--
Then leave us kneeling to the feed.

[Verse 3]
My son is cold outside the ball;
Blue server light escapes the wall.
He asks why faces dressed in gold
Can enter warmth while we stand cold.
I tell him gates are built by men,
And what men build may move again.
He touches rain against the screen;
For once the glass shows what I mean.

[Verse 4]
My mother calls from far away;
The platform charges what we say.
Her picture freezes, square and small;
Behind me, music fills the hall.
A sponsored anthem crosses through
The same machines that carry you.
The ballroom cheers a promised dawn;
Our family connection drops and is gone.

[Chorus]
Platform gods, you know our faces,
Sort our grief in rented spaces.
Sell our names by postal codes,
Bless the kings who own the roads.
Platform gods, you count our need--
Then leave us kneeling to the feed.

[Instrumental]
[Bowed low strings and guitar hold a six-beat funeral pulse while mezzo vocalizes the three-note motif without words.]

[Bridge]
Then I saw the ballroom screen
Erase the bodies I had seen.
No sleeping god removed the rain--
A waking hand selected gain.

[Break]
My child is not a data point.
My fear is not an ad.
My mother is not engagement.
My labor is not glad.

[Final Chorus]
Platform gods, we know your faces,
Know the cables, firms and places.
Every code was written down;
Every server serves a crown.
Platform gods, your temples feed
On human hands and human need.

[Outro]
My son takes hold of camera four.
He aims its light toward the ballroom door.
Three organ notes descend, then rise.
For once, the platform meets our eyes.
