| Disturbed – The Sound of Silence (Simon & Garfunkel cover) Lyrics | 4 hours ago |
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The Sound of Silence can be read as a revolt song — not a loud one, but a deeply unsettling warning against establishment power, injustice, and, most of all, collective passiveness. It is less a call to immediate action and more a diagnosis of why action never comes. “Hello darkness, my old friend / I've come to talk with you again” opens in isolation. Darkness here feels like depression, but also awareness without an outlet. The narrator is alone with his thoughts, unable to communicate what he sees because no one around him seems willing — or able — to listen. “Because a vision softly creeping / Left its seeds while I was sleeping” suggests a realization that forms slowly, almost unwillingly. The vision itself is never named, but as the song unfolds it becomes clear: oppression, injustice, manipulation, and social conditioning. While life goes on mechanically — while he is “sleeping” — disconnected fragments of reality accumulate. Only later do they begin to assemble into a larger picture. “And the vision that was planted in my brain / Still remains / Within the sound of silence” marks a crucial point: awareness without action. He sees the problem now, understands it, yet remains silent. Knowledge alone has not broken inertia. “In restless dreams I walked alone / Narrow streets of cobblestone” deepens the metaphor. The streets are narrow — restricted. Cobblestone, tightly packed and pressed into the ground, evokes people compressed into rigid social structures, oppressed and immobilized. Above them shines “the halo of a street lamp”: authority, power, the state, police, institutions — a secular divinity watching from above. The narrator notices all of this, yet still turns away: “I turned my collar to the cold and damp.” It’s the familiar human reflex — seeing suffering and injustice, understanding it, and choosing discomfort-avoidance over responsibility. “When my eyes were stabbed by the flash of a neon light” is the moment of clarity. The picture finally locks into place. The light is violent, intrusive — truth rarely arrives gently. It “splits the night” and exposes what was always there. He wants to react, to break the silence, but even now the impulse remains suspended. In the “naked light” he sees that he was never alone. “Ten thousand people, maybe more” also see it. Yet they exist in a state of collective paralysis: talking without speaking, hearing without listening. People think, create, even write songs — but never give those thoughts a real voice. Expression exists, but it is safely contained, stripped of consequence. No one dares disturb the silence, because silence has become the social contract. When he finally speaks — calling them fools, warning that silence grows like a cancer — it’s not out of arrogance but urgency. Passiveness is not neutral; it metastasizes. What is tolerated today becomes normalized tomorrow. “Hear my words… Take my arms…” is the closest the song comes to a call for revolt. Not violent uprising, but collective awakening. Still, the response is nothing. His words fall like rain into wells — absorbed, echoed, and ultimately lost. The final verses turn openly symbolic. People bow to a “neon god”: money, consumption, false promises, mass-media narratives designed to distract and pacify. Power no longer needs force; worship is voluntary. And yet, the last image offers a quiet irony. Truth does exist — but it lives on subway walls and tenement halls, in graffiti and whispers. Outside official channels. Outside power. The prophets are still speaking, but their voices are confined to the margins, drowned out by the overwhelming sound of silence. In the end, the song isn’t about ignorance. It’s about knowing — and choosing not to act. |
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| Simon and Garfunkel – The Sound of Silence Lyrics | 4 hours ago |
| The Sound of Silence can be read as a revolt song — not a loud one, but a deeply unsettling warning against establishment power, injustice, and, most of all, collective passiveness. It is less a call to immediate action and more a diagnosis of why action never comes. “Hello darkness, my old friend / I've come to talk with you again” opens in isolation. Darkness here feels like depression, but also awareness without an outlet. The narrator is alone with his thoughts, unable to communicate what he sees because no one around him seems willing — or able — to listen. “Because a vision softly creeping / Left its seeds while I was sleeping” suggests a realization that forms slowly, almost unwillingly. The vision itself is never named, but as the song unfolds it becomes clear: oppression, injustice, manipulation, and social conditioning. While life goes on mechanically — while he is “sleeping” — disconnected fragments of reality accumulate. Only later do they begin to assemble into a larger picture. “And the vision that was planted in my brain / Still remains / Within the sound of silence” marks a crucial point: awareness without action. He sees the problem now, understands it, yet remains silent. Knowledge alone has not broken inertia. “In restless dreams I walked alone / Narrow streets of cobblestone” deepens the metaphor. The streets are narrow — restricted. Cobblestone, tightly packed and pressed into the ground, evokes people compressed into rigid social structures, oppressed and immobilized. Above them shines “the halo of a street lamp”: authority, power, the state, police, institutions — a secular divinity watching from above. The narrator notices all of this, yet still turns away: “I turned my collar to the cold and damp.” It’s the familiar human reflex — seeing suffering and injustice, understanding it, and choosing discomfort-avoidance over responsibility. “When my eyes were stabbed by the flash of a neon light” is the moment of clarity. The picture finally locks into place. The light is violent, intrusive — truth rarely arrives gently. It “splits the night” and exposes what was always there. He wants to react, to break the silence, but even now the impulse remains suspended. In the “naked light” he sees that he was never alone. “Ten thousand people, maybe more” also see it. Yet they exist in a state of collective paralysis: talking without speaking, hearing without listening. People think, create, even write songs — but never give those thoughts a real voice. Expression exists, but it is safely contained, stripped of consequence. No one dares disturb the silence, because silence has become the social contract. When he finally speaks — calling them fools, warning that silence grows like a cancer — it’s not out of arrogance but urgency. Passiveness is not neutral; it metastasizes. What is tolerated today becomes normalized tomorrow. “Hear my words… Take my arms…” is the closest the song comes to a call for revolt. Not violent uprising, but collective awakening. Still, the response is nothing. His words fall like rain into wells — absorbed, echoed, and ultimately lost. The final verses turn openly symbolic. People bow to a “neon god”: money, consumption, false promises, mass-media narratives designed to distract and pacify. Power no longer needs force; worship is voluntary. And yet, the last image offers a quiet irony. Truth does exist — but it lives on subway walls and tenement halls, in graffiti and whispers. Outside official channels. Outside power. The prophets are still speaking, but their voices are confined to the margins, drowned out by the overwhelming sound of silence. In the end, the song isn’t about ignorance. It’s about knowing — and choosing not to act. | |
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