The forest is full of the sounds of snow-covered trees, scurrying creatures, and the hoot of an owl.
By the lambent glow of the lamp, a witch walks along carrying a song to the trees, the snow, and the Earth.
As she walks, trees bow, creatures dance, and the owl nods.
Howling through the houses,
insect music plays us a song.
The windows rattle and shake,
fluff balls whoosh from hiding.
The clouds move undecidedly,
sun, grey, sun, grey, sun, grey.
We have a lazy mixed-up day,
undecided about what to do.
Clouds of fresh grey days
A heated house feels too hot
Rain music playing
A wild punk rocker,
rage and riot in the house,
Flicking in and out of consciousness,
my lips feel numb.
Usual noises sound bombing loud,
forgetting the time.
I become a melancholy masterpiece,
a sad classical song.
Songs playing along the road,
dying leaves moving.
You invited me to take a voyage on the notes you love.
We journeyed together, listening to the way songs changed over time; we embraced our favourites and kept an open mind.
Now, I remember you by a series of your favourite songs, which I sometimes play alone.
Echoes of this land
blood, bone and broken dreaming
A song we know plays
Sounds of the city,
drums and an oud play a song
a wonderful day
No limits when hidden from sight.
Playing to the crowd, they blast music
from the pinnacle into the pit;
an orgy of vibrations moving through
flesh, bone and emotions.
The song comes to an end.
The next song beings.