This is not a love song.
This is what it sounds like when a devotee realizes that surrender is not received with flowers but with fire.
Only the first verse of this song belongs to Devi.
She speaks once — not with comfort, but with remembrance:
“You asked for danger. You asked for burning. Do you remember?”
Everything that follows — the pre-chorus, chorus, second verse, bridge, post-chorus — is no longer Her voice.
It is the voice of the devotee, staggering through the wreckage of their own prayer.
Everyone imagines devotion as gentle — incense, mantras, folded hands. No one sings about what comes after the vow “Take everything that is not You.”
Because She does not politely accept your offering.
She takes what you never intended to give.
She dismantles you faster than you can rebuild.
There is a phase in true surrender where prayer mutates.
It stops sounding like “I love You” and starts sounding like:
“Was this necessary?
Do You see what You’ve done?
Do You remember what I’ve lost on You?”
And this song is exactly that moment.
Not rebellion.
Not blasphemy.
Not self-pity.
It is the sacred protest of a soul that kept its promise —
and now wants to know if She is keeping Hers.
“To all the things I’ve lost on You — tell me, are they lost on You?”
This is not doubt.
This is intimacy.
Only someone who truly loves Her dares to question Her like this.
And Devi — after that first verse — does not answer.
She does not apologize.
She does not soften.
She does not defend Herself.
Her silence is the response.
She answers like a surgeon, not a mother.
Not with words —
but with continuation of the operation.
Verse One — The Memory of Fire
When you get older, plainer, saner
Will you remember all the danger we came from?
Burnin' like embers, falling, tender
Longing for the days of no surrender, years ago — and will you know?
This is Devi reminding the devotee of their first prayer.
Before the stripping. Before the losses had names. Before sacred exhaustion replaced sacred longing.
She is saying:
“Do you remember when you still burned without fear of being consumed?
Before wisdom made you cautious? Before pain made you practical?”
"Plainer, saner" — that is adulthood. Not in years, but in scars. When the fire that once felt divine now feels like risk. When you begin negotiating with God instead of surrendering to Her.
“Will you remember all the danger we came from?”
She is not flattering. She is accusing gently.
“Do not pretend you were innocent. You and I have always moved in catastrophe. You did not come to Me for safety; you came for annihilation. Why tremble now that your prayer is being answered?”
"Burnin' like embers, falling, tender" — She names the paradox:
You were softest when you were burning.
Most surrendered when you were undone.
Most alive when you were falling without asking to be caught.
"Longing for the days of no surrender" — now you crave again what you once were willing to die for.
And She asks the devastating question:
“When the ashes settle — will you know Me beneath them?
Or did you only love My flame?”
Pre-Chorus — The Devotee’s Accusation
So smoke 'em if you got 'em 'cause it's goin' down
All I ever wanted was you
I'll never get to heaven 'cause I don't know how
Let's raise a glass or two
This is not celebration — it is resignation.
It is the sound of someone realizing there is no turning back. No retrieving what was surrendered. No returning to an ordinary life.
"Smoke 'em if you got 'em, 'cause it's goin' down" — meaning:
“Brace yourself. Whatever defenses are left, use them now — because She is about to take even those.”
There is no illusion of control here. Only the bitter knowledge that the storm is already moving and standing still will not stop it.
Then comes the confession:
“All I ever wanted was You.”
This is the one honest sentence that explains everything.
There are only two beings speaking in this song:
— The one stripped.
— The One stripping.
And the stripped one finally admits:
“I didn’t want freedom. I didn’t want peace. I didn’t want success or safety or even heaven.”
“All I ever wanted was You.”
And then — the line of helplessness:
“I'll never get to heaven 'cause I don't know how.”
Translation:
“I only know how to want You. I don’t know how to survive You.”
"Let's raise a glass or two" — not a toast of joy, but of truce.
The soul is saying:
“I cannot pray right now. I cannot praise You. But I can acknowledge that this is happening. And I can meet Your knife without flinching — if only for one more round.”
Chorus — The Sacred Protest
To all the things I've lost on you, oh
Tell me, are they lost on you? Oh
Just that you could cut me loose, oh
After everything I've lost on you — is that lost on you?
This is the moment where devotion turns into interrogation.
Not of faith — but of reciprocity.
"To all the things I've lost on You" — this is not nostalgia. It is inventory.
There is a point on the path where the soul no longer speaks in poetry. It speaks like someone holding burnt offerings and demanding acknowledgment:
“I have lost things I did not know could be taken. Things I would have gladly offered — had You asked. But You did not ask. You tore. You ripped. You rearranged reality without warning.”
And then — the central plea:
“Tell me — are they lost on You?”
Meaning:
“Did You notice?
Or did You take blindly?
Was this precision — or was it indifference?”
Some would call this blasphemy. Saints would call it intimacy.
Only those who have walked far enough dare to speak to God rather than about God.
"Just that You could cut me loose — after everything I’ve lost on You — is that lost on You?"
Translation:
“You said You loved me. Then why do I feel discarded?
If this severing is grace, say so. If it is mercy, show it.
If You are killing me to free me — at least tell me which one of us is dying.”
Verse Two — The Demand for Understanding
Wish that I could see the machinations
Understand the toil of expectations in your mind
Hold me like you never lost your patience
Tell me that you love me more than hate me all the time — and you're still mine
This is the soul trying one last tactic: reason.
"Wish that I could see the machinations" —
“If only I could understand how You think.
If only I could see why You arranged things the way You did.
If I could just comprehend Your method, I could endure the pain.”
This is the most human plea: “If I can’t escape Your will, at least let me relate to it.”
"Understand the toil of expectations in Your mind" —
The soul is begging for transparency:
“Am I failing some test?
Is this punishment?
Or am I still inside Your plan — even when I look abandoned?”
And then — the most vulnerable request in the entire song:
“Hold me like You never lost Your patience.”
Not “Make it stop.”
Not “Give it back.”
Just:
“If You’re going to destroy me — could You at least destroy me gently?”
"Tell me that You love me more than hate me all the time" —
This is the most brutal line because every real devotee has thought it, even if they’ve never spoken it:
“Are You refining me — or are You fed up with me?
Is this purification — or is this rejection?”
"And you're still mine" —
This final fragment flips the entire verse.
Up until now, the soul has been asking: “Am I still Yours?”
But here it remembers:
“You may be God — but You also belong to me.”
This is not arrogance. It is bhakti at its most raw — when the lover dares to hold God accountable to the covenant of love.
Bridge — The Echo of the Unanswered Prayer
(Lost on you)
(Lost on you)
(Woah, woah, woah)
No new revelation. No instruction. Just looping.
This is not poetry — it’s withdrawal.
This is what real tapas feels like:
not clarity, not transcendence — but circular ache.
Final Chorus — The Question That Becomes a Mantra
After everything I’ve lost on You — is that lost on You?
Is that lost on You?
By now, the question is no longer addressed to Her.
It starts to turn inward:
“If She will not answer — I must become the one who knows.”
But just as dignity tries to rise…
Post-Chorus — The Collapse Into Need
Oh-oh
Oh, is that lost on You?
Oh-oh
Baby, is that lost on You? Is that lost on You?
The word “Baby” arrives like a crack in the armor.
It’s not theological anymore.
Not philosophical.
Not even devotional.
It is animal.
It is the soul dropping all spiritual composure and speaking from the flesh:
“Don’t be distant. Don’t be cosmic.
Look at me up close. Hold me like You used to.”
This is the most embarrassing part of devotion —
when even righteous protest collapses into touch me. reassure me. tell me You still want me.
And still —
She says nothing.
The Answer Inside the Silence
By the end of the song, the devotee is still asking:
“After everything I’ve lost on You — is that lost on You?”
There is no reply.
No thunder.
No blessing.
No divine reassurance.
Just silence.
To an uninitiated mind, silence means abandonment.
To one who has truly entered Her current, silence is something else:
It is the moment She stops answering as Mother —
because She is demanding that you answer as Her.
At a certain point on the path, God refuses to speak back —
not because She is gone,
but because She has moved inward.
She will not say “I understand your loss.”
She will not say “It was worth it.”
She will not say “I am still here.”
She will wait — to see whether you can stand inside Her silence without running, without bargaining, without collapsing.
If you can —
then the question “Is it lost on You?”
is no longer thrown upward.
It turns inward.
It becomes witness.
It becomes fire without plea.
It becomes:
“Nothing I have lost was mine.
Nothing You have taken was wasted.
Nothing that burns in Your fire dies in vain.”
This is the moment the devotee stops being a devotee.
Not because devotion ends —
but because devotion completes its work
and hardens into clarity.
The song never gives closure.
Because closure would be mercy —
and mercy is not how She finishes Her saints.
She finishes them in silence.
And waits to see
if they can answer in Her voice.
No comments:
Post a Comment