[Intro]
[Three isolated bass notes sound between long periods of silence.]

[Verse 1]
The gaoler led me underground where lime peeled from the stone,
Past doors that breathed through iron slots and men who prayed alone.
Peter Kroll sat on the floor, one ankle black and bare;
A broken bowl beside his knee, old blood within his hair.
No candle reached the farther wall; no chapel sound came down.
He asked me if the morning bells still carried through the town.
I said the bells were ringing, though the tower had been calm—
A useless little mercy in a cell without a psalm.

[Verse 2]
“They asked me for my brother’s name, then for the brewer’s wife.
They promised me a cup of broth for every ruined life.
I told them I had seen no rite, no gathering, sign or scar.
They struck me when I would not place a devil in the dark.
Young clerk, you wrote I hesitated. Write instead I knew.
Write Peter Kroll denied the charge; no neighbour’s name he drew.
I have no land for men to steal, no child to carry blame—
The only thing they want from me is someone else’s name.”

[Refrain]
A cell without a psalm, a wall without the sun,
A question asked until the truth and breathing both are done.
A cell without a psalm, no witness but the stone—
He kept his neighbours living and prepared to die alone.

[Verse 3]
I promised I would write his words exactly as he spoke.
He smiled once through a swollen lip; the effort made him choke.
Above us, boots crossed overhead; the witchfinder arrived,
Demanding that the record show the prisoner still survived.
They kept me outside half an hour; the iron hinges cried.
When I returned, the bowl was spilled and Peter Kroll had died.
The witchfinder placed one clean sheet beneath my shaking palm:
“Record his full confession. Let his family read the psalm.”

[Break]
I wrote that he confessed at last.
I wrote the names he never cast.
I wrote repentance cleared his breath.
I wrote a lie beside his death.

[Chorus]
In a cell without a psalm, I buried Peter’s voice.
No judge compelled the final line; the pen remained my choice.
In a cell without a psalm, the stone could not accuse—
I gave the court its needed words because I feared to lose.
In a cell without a psalm, I crossed the deepest line:
The dead man kept his honour. The living shame was mine.

[Instrumental]
[Clean guitar harmonics alternate with heavy single chords; no lead melody resolves.]

[Bridge]
No bell was struck. No crowd was near.
No ribbon held my wrist in fear.
I dipped the quill. I formed the claim.
I murdered truth and signed my name.

[Final Chorus]
In a cell without a psalm, I buried Peter’s voice.
No judge compelled the final line; the pen remained my choice.
In a cell without a psalm, his silence did not lose—
He saved the lives they demanded while I furnished names to use.
In a cell without a psalm, beneath the courthouse spine,
The dead man kept his honour. The living guilt was mine.

[Outro]
[The vocal is unaccompanied.]
Peter Kroll confessed to nothing.
Peter Kroll betrayed no name.
That is what the page should carry.
That is not what I became.