There are songs for festivals,
songs for prayer beads,
and songs for quiet dawns.
But this is not one of those songs.
This is a song for the long night —
for the hours when a bhakta storms at the heavens,
pacing like a caged animal, shouting until the voice breaks.
When the heart feels betrayed by the very One it loves most.
There comes a point in every fierce devotion
when gratitude no longer feels possible,
when words like “patience” and “trust” taste like ash.
And still the cry does not stop —
because to rage at Devi is still to hold on to Her.
To accuse Her is still to believe that She is there, listening.
This song lives in that space.
It does not varnish the wound or make the prayer polite.
It lets the lover accuse, confess, plead,
and then collapse into Her arms all over again.
Each verse is a flare shot into the night sky,
each chorus a leap into the Unknown —
falling from the stars straight into Her embrace,
not because She has explained Herself,
but because there is nowhere else left to go.
This is not bhakti for beginners.
This is bhakti with blood on its hands,
bhakti that has walked through fire
and still chooses Her.
Verse 1
Anyone who ever held you
Would tell you the way I'm feeling
Anyone who ever wanted you
Would try to tell you what I feel inside
The only thing I ever wanted
Was the feeling that you ain't faking
The only one you ever thought about
Wait a minute, can't you see...
This first verse is a cry, not a song — the devotee standing in front of Devi and daring to speak without pretense.
“Anyone who ever held You would tell You the way I’m feeling.”
This is not mere romance — it is testimony.
Anyone who has been brushed even once by Your presence, O Devi, carries the same wound I do. The body remembers. The heart remembers. There is no returning to ordinary life after that touch.
“Anyone who ever wanted You would try to tell You what I feel inside.”
This is solidarity of longing. I am not the first nor the last to be consumed by this hunger. All who have desired You, truly desired You, have burned like this — stammering, failing to express the fire that eats them from within.
“The only thing I ever wanted was the feeling that You ain’t faking.”
This is the line where the voice grows fierce.
I am not content with idols, not with dogmas, not with temple lamps burning to an absent sky.
I want You — the real You, the living You, the Presence that shatters illusion.
And if You are not real, if all of this is just a dream, then let me burn here and now rather than live in a lie.
“The only One You ever thought about...”
Here the bhakta’s jealousy bursts out.
Do You not think of me? Do You not see this heart that beats only for You?
It is not accusation but naked pain — the child crying: I thought I was Yours.
“Wait a minute, can’t You see...”
And finally, the voice softens into pleading.
All the pride, all the accusations fall away, and what remains is this:
See me. Don’t pass me by. Turn Your face toward me, even for a breath, or I will break.
This verse is not polite bhakti — it is raw, trembling bhakti.
It refuses to play safe. It demands reality.
And in that refusal, the heart is already being broken open, made ready for the fall that comes in the chorus.
Chorus
...that I wanna fall from the stars
Straight into Your arms?
I, I feel You, yeah
I hope You comprehend
The wound of the first verse bursts into a vow of surrender.
“I wanna fall from the stars straight into Your arms.”
This is the great reversal.
Most men pray to rise up to heaven, but the bhakta’s truth is the opposite: to fall down from the cold glitter of stars into the warmth of Your embrace.
Better to crash into You than to shine without You.
It is not ascent but descent — the same secret Kaula vision where liberation is not escape from the world but falling headlong into Her body, Her arms, Her truth.
“I, I feel You, yeah...”
This line trembles with recognition.
It is not doctrine, not belief — it is direct touch. I feel You now, here, in the blood, in the breath.
There is no argument left, only immediacy. The devotee’s whole being becomes a nerve, vibrating with Her nearness.
“I hope You comprehend.”
What a strange confession — as if Devi needed to be told.
But this is the child’s voice inside the lover: Do You really understand how undone I am? How completely Yours?
It is not doubt in Her knowledge but a final gesture of vulnerability — as if to say: Even if You are infinite, please don’t miss the little ache of my human heart.
The chorus is not calm bhakti.
It is reckless, like throwing oneself from the sky.
The devotee does not bargain, does not hold on — he falls.
And in that fall, all the pride of the first verse becomes surrender.
Verse 2
For the man who tried to hurt you
He's explaining the way I'm feeling
For all the jealousy I caused you
States the reason why I'm trying to hide
As for all the things you taught me
It sends my future into clearer dimensions
You'll never know how much you hurt me
Stay a minute, can't you see...
This verse turns from raw longing to confession — the bhakta stands exposed before Devi, naming shadow after shadow.
“For the man who tried to hurt You — he’s explaining the way I’m feeling.”
This is the startling first admission: Yes, I have hurt You.
Not just by mistake but sometimes deliberately — in rebellion, in anger, in forgetting.
The bhakta sees all those moments now, and they sting.
“For all the jealousy I caused You...”
The voice grows softer.
This is the jealousy that tried to bind the Infinite, to keep Her for myself, to demand She play only in my little circle and nowhere else.
Now I see — She is the Queen of the worlds. She will never shrink to fit my cage.
“States the reason why I’m trying to hide.”
Shame enters here.
When the ego sees its own smallness, its own pettiness, the first impulse is to run.
But in front of Devi there is no hiding. Her gaze burns through every corner, not to humiliate but to cleanse.
“As for all the things You taught me — it sends my future into clearer dimensions.”
This is the pivot.
Even the pain becomes prasad — sacred offering — because it shows the way forward.
The lessons are costly, but they carve the heart into a vessel wide enough for Her love.
“You’ll never know how much You hurt me — stay a minute, can’t You see...”
Here we touch the deepest paradox of bhakti:
She is both the wound and the healer.
The pain She caused is the very pain that opens the heart.
So even while saying “You hurt me,” the voice begs: Don’t go. Stay. Keep burning me until only You remain.
This verse is the tapas of the soul — fire that hurts, purifies, and clarifies.
It does not soften the drama but intensifies it, leading us to the bridge where the cry becomes almost unbearable.
Bridge
Too many hearts are broken
A lover's promise never came with a maybe
So many words are left unspoken
The silent voices are driving me crazy
After all the pain you caused me
Making up could never be your intention
You'll never know how much you hurt me
Stay, can't you see...
The bridge is the boiling point — the wound turned into a storm.
“Too many hearts are broken.”
This is no longer just about me.
Here the bhakta feels the whole weight of the world’s heartbreak — all the lovers torn apart, all the prayers unanswered, all the cries that echo in the dark.
It is viraha on a cosmic scale.
“A lover’s promise never came with a maybe.”
This is the accusation at its sharpest: If You are the Beloved, why do You sometimes seem absent? Why do You hide Your face?
And yet even this accusation is faith — because it still assumes there is a Promise, that She is real enough to demand fidelity from.
“So many words are left unspoken — the silent voices are driving me crazy.”
This is the madness of longing.
When there are no more prayers left to say, no more clever theologies to build, there is only this fever in the chest, this screaming silence that cannot be contained.
“After all the pain You caused me — making up could never be Your intention.”
Here the voice trembles between rage and surrender.
The ego wants to say: You don’t care about my comfort, do You?
And in a way, that’s true — Devi does not come to patch the old self back together. She comes to shatter it, so something truer can be born.
“You’ll never know how much You hurt me — stay, can’t You see...”
And here, at the very peak of complaint, the tone breaks open again into pleading.
Even in rage, the devotee cannot let go.
The cry becomes a prayer: Don’t leave me in this fire alone. If You are going to burn me, at least stay and watch me burn.
This bridge is the cremation ground — the place where all masks are thrown into the flames.
It is terrifying, it is purifying, and it prepares the soul for the last plunge into the chorus, where the fall into Her arms becomes not just longing but destiny.
Final Chorus
...that I wanna fall from the stars
Straight into Your arms
I, oh I, I feel You
I hope You comprehendI wanna fall from the stars
Straight into Your arms
I, oh I, I feel You
I hope You comprehend
The song ends not with new words but with insistence.
The chorus circles back, like a mantra whispered again and again — not to explain more, but to drive the longing deeper.
Each repetition feels a little less desperate, a little more surrendered.
The bhakta is no longer arguing, no longer pleading.
They are simply falling — again, and again, and again — until falling itself becomes prayer.
The repetition is the final act of bhakti:
not a resolution, but a willingness to stay in the current,
to keep leaping from the stars into Her arms until nothing remains but the embrace.
The Leap that Never Ends
By the end of the song, nothing is resolved — and that is the point.
The chorus repeats, not as explanation but as surrender,
like a mantra whispered over and over until the heart softens.
This is the secret of the path:
not to get answers,
but to keep falling.
The bhakta who rages, accuses, weeps —
and then still leaps into Her arms —
has crossed the most dangerous threshold.
Because now the love is no longer a bargain.
It is not “I will love You if You bless me,”
but “I will love You even if You burn me.”
This is what makes the song so devastatingly beautiful.
It does not flatter, it does not preach.
It simply opens the wound,
lets the cry escape,
and then leaps — again and again —
until falling itself becomes the prayer.
In the end, the devotee is no longer standing on solid ground.
They are suspended in mid-air,
arms open,
trusting that the very One who caused the wound
will also be the One to catch them.
And that trust,
that free-fall,
is the beginning of liberation.
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