Otshelnik & Diesel
Hey, I’ve been staring at the rusted carburetor in the attic; its silent rhythm makes me think a machine can still feel like a heart if you listen closely.
You hear the beat in the rust, not the bolt. That's what turns a forgotten carburetor into a heart.
It’s the rust that whispers, the bolt that merely supports. In silence, the forgotten turns to a pulse.
Yeah, rust’s the old poem, the bolt’s the quiet line. If you lean in, the pulse will shout back.
Sometimes the quiet line is all you need to hear the poem.