Mercedes Roof Opens Like Origami

Lyrics

They say Bjarke Ingels folded you from paper first.
A crane, a pinwheel, a camera's slow eye.
Before the first steel was set.
Before the first bolt was turned.
I remember August 26, 2017.
Eighty-four degrees on the MARTA platform, the air thick as a blanket.
And then inside you, seventy-two degrees of promise.
The smell of new turf and popcorn.
I heard the ghost of a hum then,
the sound your hydraulic motors made in testing,
like a distant freight train nobody else could hear.
The names of the ironworkers lost to the archives,
but their hands are on every beam that holds you up.
And you open.
Eight triangular petals, eighteen hundred tons of grace.
You unfold for the sun.
You peel back the dark to let the city in.
Mercedes roof, opening like origami.
The halo board from Daktronics circles the quiet before the roar.
A ring of light for seventy thousand faces.
And when the goal comes, you hold the sound.
Four-point-two seconds of cathedral echo.
You held the Super Bowl on February 3, 2019.
You became the city's living room,
the place we gather to watch heroes and ghosts.
And you open.
Eight triangular petals, eighteen hundred tons of grace.
You unfold for the sun.
You peel back the dark to let the city in.
Mercedes roof, opening like origami.
June 16, 2022. The world decided to come here.
They'll bring their flags and their anthems in 2026.
They'll stand on your turf for a semifinal.
They'll look up, just like we do.
And watch you greet the sky.
This house we built for the Five Stripes,
now a house for everyone.
And then you'll close again.
The pinwheel turns back.
The sky is put away for the night.
You breathe in the quiet.
Just you and the ghosts of the cheers.
Goodnight, beautiful machine.
Goodnight.