One O'clock

First month of the year, a paramount of heart beat;

the stage lit up, a voice echoed,

eyes closed, fused in roaring heat.

Our feet remained chained in shackles, wayward

but not for long.

Blinded by a white, black and a shade of red,

on the thirty fifth day he shook us with his song;

a raging sea, hyped up crowds, we jumped our way

down to the ground.

Heads clashing, drums rolling, and bass booming,

on the second month of winter, hands floating above our heads

a millennium sound was heard.