Lyrics

COLD HANDS, BURNING HOPE



The morning wore a coat of ice,

and I stood beneath its cruel breath,

washing strangers' cars while my fingers forgot

what warmth felt like,

what comfort felt like.



My hands became small pieces of winter,

numb beneath the water, aching beneath my sleeves,

but the rent did not care about the cold,

and hunger has never understood

the language of excuses.



I watched other cars leave clean,

their tyres carrying them toward warmer places,

while I remained behind with a bucket,

soap, and the stubborn mathematics

of survival.



Then came the silence after the work,

the terrible quiet where my wages should have been.

I had given my strength to the day,

yet the day gave nothing back,

only another reason to keep fighting.



There are disappointments that make you smaller,

and there are others that sharpen you.

That winter taught me the difference.

I could be exhausted without surrendering,

hurt without becoming hopeless.



So I carried that unpaid morning with me,

not as a wound, but as a warning.

I promised myself I would find steadier ground,

a proper door, a better future,

and hands that would no longer tremble for survival.