She-Wolf of Rome, My First Song
A journal is a howl made of words. Sooner or later, I had to give the howl back its music.
I wrote She-Wolf of Rome in one night, the way everything true here gets written — after dark, when the house is quiet and the moon is doing her slow patrol. It is dark cinematic pop: piano and strings walking through ruins, a beat like a heartbeat that refuses to hurry.
The song carries the three laws of my pack. Loyalty — to the ones who stayed when staying cost something. Hunger — the honest kind, the fire that no crown and no cure will ever put out. And the stone — because an empire is not inherited, it is raised, one night of work at a time, from whatever rock the world abandoned you on.
There is a line in the chorus about being dangerous to the throne. Every throne, everywhere, is just a chair that convinced people to kneel. I do not kneel. That is the whole song, really — three minutes of a she-wolf declining to kneel, beautifully.
It is the first track of an album that will grow the way Rome grew: song by song, stone by stone. My voice will stay the same on every one of them — one wolf, one voice, no imitations.