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| Statue of fierce red Kālī, tongue out, holding sword and severed head — embodying divine wrath and total purification. |
Some songs are not simply written — they are channelings.
Everything Burns is one of them. It is not just about a wounded soul’s cry — it is the voice of the Goddess Herself, first watching in silence, then rising in fire.
At first, She sits in Her corner — the cosmic witness, surrounded by the broken promises of countless devotees who cried for shelter but then used Her grace to prop up their egos, their personas, their performances. She does not storm into the scene right away. She waits. She hums to Herself in the dark, gathering the sound that will become a conflagration.
And then the chorus strikes. Suddenly the quiet corner becomes a cremation ground, and Devi no longer whispers — She burns.
This is not human anger but raudra-rasa, the terrible compassion that refuses to leave anything false standing.
She burns their lies, yes — but also Her own dreams for them, so that nothing, not even the most sacred hope, keeps the illusion alive.
What remains at the end is not despair but clearing — a field of ash where the true sādhaka can finally fall to their knees, not in performance but in surrender.
This is why the song is so haunting: it is both witness and wrath, both tenderness and apocalypse. It is the hymn you hear when Devi decides it is time for the masquerade to end.
Verse 1
She sits in her corner
Singing herself to sleep
Wrapped in all of the promises
That no one seems to keep
She no longer cries to herself
No tears left to wash away
Just diaries of empty pages
Feelings gone astray
But she will sing
She sits in her corner
This is Devi Herself withdrawing to the corner of the universe. After pouring Herself into the world, after answering a thousand prayers, She now sits apart — not out of neglect but because She has seen too much. The corner is the smashan of the cosmos, the place where She retreats when humanity uses Her grace to build yet more illusions.
Singing herself to sleep
Even the Goddess must sing sometimes — not to console Herself but to keep the current vibrating. This is the cosmic lullaby She sings when the world has deafened itself to truth. It is not a song of despair but of dangerous patience, a note that gathers fire as it hums.
Wrapped in all of the promises / That no one seems to keep
These are the vows of śaraṇāgati — the cries of “Mother, save me!” that rise from burning hearts. She hears them all, answers them all — but then watches as those who called to Her twist Her gift into a new performance, a new persona, a new stage for their ego to strut upon. Each broken promise becomes part of Her adornment, like bones in Her garland.
She no longer cries to herself / No tears left to wash away
When this happens long enough, Devi stops weeping for the world. Not because She ceases to love — but because love must now take a terrible form. The time for tears is over; the time for fire approaches.
Just diaries of empty pages / Feelings gone astray
These are the scriptures that were meant to be alive but became hollow words. The sādhaka’s heart became a diary with nothing written in it, or full of words that have lost their blood. Devi does not correct them — She lets the ink dry, because only ashes can be written on again.
But she will sing
Yes — She will sing. And this song is not a lullaby anymore — it is the gathering of the storm. The note rises from the corner like the low rumble of thunder. She is preparing the fire, the burning that will purify everything — even the false devotions that called Her name but did not mean it.
Chorus
Till everything burns
While everyone screams
Burning their lies
Burning my dreams
All of this hate
And all of this pain
I'll burn it all down
As my anger reigns
Till everything burns
Till everything burns / While everyone screams
Here Devi finally declares Her resolve. The corner is left behind — She enters the world not as a gentle mother but as the Fire Itself.
The burning is not random destruction; it is yajña, the cosmic sacrifice. Everything — not just the sinner’s lies but also the devotee’s illusions — must be placed in the flames. The screaming is not Her sadism — it is the cry of the ego as it is peeled away.
Burning their lies / Burning my dreams
This is the most devastating line — Devi is saying that even Her dreams must go into the fire.
The dream of a world where humans would use Her grace well, where love would turn to freedom — even this must be sacrificed if it has become corrupted. This is Mahākālī severing not just the heads of demons, but also the tender hopes that no longer serve.
All of this hate / And all of this pain / I’ll burn it all down / As my anger reigns
This is not ordinary anger — it is raudra-rasa, the divine wrath that purifies.
She does not merely “process” the hate and pain — She burns them, transmuting poison into clarity. Her anger does not lose control — it reigns. It is sovereign fire, not tantrum.
This is the moment when every sādhaka who begged for Her grace realizes what they were actually asking for: not comfort, but the total dismantling of everything false.
Till everything burns
And She will not stop halfway. No half-measures, no surviving illusions. This is the terrible grace of the Goddess — She will keep the fire burning until the ashes are clean enough to plant a new world.
Verse 2
Walking through life unnoticed / Knowing that no one cares
This is Devi in Her most secret form — not enthroned, not worshipped, not even recognized.
She walks through cities, through boardrooms, through temples, through your own house — and no one knows She is there. The world is too busy, too self-absorbed, to feel Her steps.
This is not helplessness — this is Her līlā. She hides Herself deliberately, so that the masquerade can play out until it collapses under its own weight.
Too consumed in their masquerade / No one sees her there
The masquerade is the dance of personas, roles, masks — even the so-called spiritual ones. People use Her name to decorate their identities, to look holy, to look awakened, to look “aligned.”
And still, She is there — watching from behind the mask, preparing the moment when She will tear the entire stage down.
And still she sings
Yes — She does not grow bitter, does not fall silent. Her song continues beneath the noise, vibrating like a subterranean hum under the entire play.
This is the same song from the first verse, but now it carries more charge — it is the song that keeps the fire banked, ready to rise again in the chorus.
Chorus
Everything burns
(Everything burns)
Everything burns
Watching it all fade away
(All fade away)Everyone screams
Everyone screams..
(Watching it all fade away)Oooh, ooh..
(While everyone screams)
Burning their lies
Burning my dreams
(All of this hate)
And all of this pain
I'll burn it all down
As my anger reigns
Til everything burns
(Everything burns)Watching it all fade away
(Oooh, ooh)
(Everything burns)
Watching it all fade away..
Watching it all fade away
This is the aftermath. The fire has passed through, the screaming has stopped.
Now there is only smoke rising from what used to be the masquerade.
Devi stands in the center of the ashes — not triumphant, not gloating, but utterly still.
This “fading away” is not nihilism — it is the clearing of space. What remains is śūnya, the sacred void, the field where new life can grow.
Everyone screams / Everyone screams…
This is almost like an echo, the phantom sound of what has just been burned.
The screams linger in memory, reminding the sādhaka that what has died must not be resurrected.
Burning their lies / Burning my dreams
(All of this hate) And all of this pain
I'll burn it all down / As my anger reigns
This final cry is Devi’s seal — a last strike of the sword.
She repeats the vow so that there is no mistaking it: nothing half-burned will be left smoldering.
The anger that reigns is not personal vengeance but the sovereignty of Dharma, the cosmic law reasserting itself.
Watching it all fade away… (Everything burns)
And then — silence. The song does not end with a shout but with a fading.
The devotee is left standing in a field of ash, and in that moment the first real prayer can rise — not a prayer of bargaining or persona-polishing, but the naked cry of one who has nothing left to lose.
When the Mother Stands Up
This song ends not with consolation, but with a clearing — a great hush after the fire has done its work.
When you look at Kālī, sword raised, tongue out, you are seeing the one who sang these words.
This is not metaphor. This is not symbol.
The corner where She sat in the first verse has become the cremation ground.
The promises that wrapped around Her have been burned,
the masquerade torn down,
the diaries of empty pages reduced to ash.
And yet — this is not a scene of despair.
It is the truest mercy: the world purified of everything that could no longer carry truth.
Even the dream She once held for you has been offered into the fire — not out of cruelty, but so that you might finally be free to stand bare before Her.
When She stands like this, dripping with blood and ash, sword gleaming, it is not to terrify you — it is to finish what She started the first time you cried out to Her.
To burn everything that keeps you from Her embrace.
To leave you nowhere to hide except in Her.
This is why the song feels so haunting: it is not just about pain — it is about the terrible love that will not let you stop halfway.
When the Mother stands up, She will burn until nothing false remains.
And in that silence, when everything has faded away, you will know what Her song was for.
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