(Intro — whispered) A cigarette dies... A breath escapes... A man stands tall... Striped. Verse 1 — The Smoke Serpent A serpent of smoke slips between two bars, the wind says “go”, the moon says “too far.” In the cell, a man rubs his brow against the dark, he counts his days, his dreams, his seconds that depart. Striped like the walls, like the coat that he wears, like his name that’s erased each time he crosses theirs. Beneath coughing neon lights, he seeks a clear way, a crack of sky to flee his endless gray. A butt for a lamp, a breath for a prayer, he writes on the smoke with words of glare. His mouth is his pen, the void his page, and his heart keeps time through the cage. Chorus — The Line One bold line — drawn across his past, one bold line — that none can ever recast. One clear line, one cold ray, Struck from the world, yet alive today. One sharp line — a flash in the cage, one sharp line — between man and mirage. One clean line, no return, no law, Struck out... but standing — believe, oh, awe. Verse 2 — The Book of Fate A parchment dawn unfolds inside his head, words dance, and phrases blaze instead. He rereads his life like an ancient scroll, where every flaw shines fierce and whole. He sees again the street, the murmur, the drift, love on the run, youth’s reckless gift. The judging eyes, the sirens that wail, the dreams erased, the promises frail. Yet in his cage, he carves a star, with nail, with breath, with scar. He says: “My freedom’s not out there, it’s in me. The world struck me out — but I rewrite my decree.” And the smoke ascends, slender and bright, like an oath tattooed on steel and light. Each bar becomes a line of script, each scar, a mark his soul has gripped. Chorus — The Line (second time) One bold line — drawn across his past, one bold line — that none can ever recast. One clear line, one cold ray, Struck from the world, yet alive today. One bold line — in the night of silence, one bold line — in patient defiance. One clean line, no return, no creed, Struck out... but standing, indeed. Verse 3 — The Striped Man Mornings pass, the body fades, the gaze wears thin, but the soul still sways. The striped man becomes his chains’ reflection, half-flesh, half-shadow — but full of tension. Then one day, the door quakes, light enters — simple, awake. One step, then two — outside. Air hits him, a golden cry. The smoke serpent rises once more, the man follows its trail, body and core. Free, yes — but marked for life, the world stares back — he smiles, rife: “I’m struck out, but not from the dream. I’ve carved my path through every seam. You struck my name from mankind’s tome, but I walk your streets — your ghost, your home.” Bridge — The Final Line One bold line — through fear, through shame, one bold line — across the cross of blame. One bold line — a bridge on the void, one bold line — where dark’s destroyed. One cold line, but in his heart, the flame. One straight line, a cry — heaven’s name. Outro — spoken, echo A serpent of smoke... a breath... a name struck out, but not erased. (heartbeat, silence) Struck... and free.