One for all, even when everything falls apart.
The phone lights up. “Brother… where are you?”

Rain on my face, the yard is empty, the entrance flickers.
Yellow light from the windows cuts across the wet driveway.
The phone glows again: “Brother, where are you?” A short text.
A minute later headlights slice through the dark courtyard.

A jacket over his shoulders, blood mixed with rain.
Someone whispers quietly: “He’s alive… we’ll make it.”

Headlights in the yard, and suddenly the night belongs to us.
A siren somewhere far away, but it’s not for us.

If one of ours falls, we lift him now.
If one of ours calls out, it means we’re already there.

If one falls, we hold him up.
Headlights in the yard means our people are here.
We don’t shout “one for all,”
but when it matters, everyone stands for everyone.

If one falls, we hold him up.
Night over the district, rain on the glass.
We’re not heroes and not saints,
just our own people, and that’s enough.

The bar is already closed, chairs turned upside down.
Someone presses ice against a split lip.
Someone smokes silently, staring into the yard.
And all you hear is the low hum of an engine.

The phone lights again: “Brother… where are you?”
A short message in the dark.

A few minutes later cars fly into the yard.
Doors slam, footsteps on wet pavement.
No one asks who was right or wrong.
If one of ours says “brother,” we’re already on the way back.

If one falls, we hold him up.
Headlights in the yard means our people are here.
We don’t shout “one for all,”
but when it matters, everyone stands for everyone.

And if tomorrow the door is kicked in at six in the morning,
and footsteps echo again on the stairwell,
if they take me away, you’ll come.
I know you will come, brother.

Because “one for all” isn’t just words.

The headlights fade, the yard is empty again.
The phone glows quietly in the dark.

Brother… where are you.