Four shadows on a Liverpool street,
not yet legends,
just boys with callused fingers
and hearts tuned to something
the world hadn't heard yet.

A chord struck,
and the silence of the age shattered.
Not with noise,
but with a new kind of light.

Hair a little too long,
truths a little too bold.
They didn't follow time;
they bent it.
They made it spin in reverse,
then forward again,
as if music could rewrite memory.

From black-and-white stages
to sitars and skies soaked in colour,
they walked the line between
screams and silence,
chaos and clarity.

They sang of love,
of nowhere man,
of walruses and revolutions,
of letting go,
and holding on.

And when the curtain fell,
it didn't end.
It only echoed
through vinyl,
through headphones,
through time.