lyrics
The hum of crystals woke him up.
He put on a shirt, and stepped out into the garden. Wind had driven the clouds away, leaving behind an inky dome dotted with stars like spilled rice.
Barefoot he walked on dewy grass among a glinting menagerie, his hand caressing the crystal trees, brushing the bejeweled fruit which weighed down their branches, and each touch sent a shiver through the garden's spine all the way to the mountain in the distance—causing the mountain to shake in response, grumble, blow gusts of wind gardenward, which in turn made the crystals sing even louder.
He made his way past rattling saplings, pygmy faces preserved in pearl cherries eagerly following his step, between hedges coated in a diamond-berry crust, through a patch of onyx pumpkins, until he reached the mulch where grass grew sparsely.
He bent down, buried his hand in the cold soil to the wrist.
The tips of his fingers touched the seed. There, still. That gold nugget with the amber face preserved in it, a catch he'd bled to wrestle free from the mountain, to plant in his garden of stone and let grow into a crystal birch or oak, or some beautiful fruit tree, the life within running as saccharine sap through veins of gemstone leaves.
The wind stole his sigh; relieved, he stood, and his crystal-caged creatures watched him in silent consternation do what they could not—breathe deeply, drinking in the night air.
He strode back to his mansion, each step drawn out as a millennium, the frozen bodies from times inconceivably far away as if singing, emboldened by the mountain, a choir in tune to the wind, piping, sleep tight.
Sleep tight, he thought he heard. And never wake up.
He put on a shirt, and stepped out into the garden. Wind had driven the clouds away, leaving behind an inky dome dotted with stars like spilled rice.
Barefoot he walked on dewy grass among a glinting menagerie, his hand caressing the crystal trees, brushing the bejeweled fruit which weighed down their branches, and each touch sent a shiver through the garden's spine all the way to the mountain in the distance—causing the mountain to shake in response, grumble, blow gusts of wind gardenward, which in turn made the crystals sing even louder.
He made his way past rattling saplings, pygmy faces preserved in pearl cherries eagerly following his step, between hedges coated in a diamond-berry crust, through a patch of onyx pumpkins, until he reached the mulch where grass grew sparsely.
He bent down, buried his hand in the cold soil to the wrist.
The tips of his fingers touched the seed. There, still. That gold nugget with the amber face preserved in it, a catch he'd bled to wrestle free from the mountain, to plant in his garden of stone and let grow into a crystal birch or oak, or some beautiful fruit tree, the life within running as saccharine sap through veins of gemstone leaves.
The wind stole his sigh; relieved, he stood, and his crystal-caged creatures watched him in silent consternation do what they could not—breathe deeply, drinking in the night air.
He strode back to his mansion, each step drawn out as a millennium, the frozen bodies from times inconceivably far away as if singing, emboldened by the mountain, a choir in tune to the wind, piping, sleep tight.
Sleep tight, he thought he heard. And never wake up.
credits
from Garden,
released May 25, 2017
license
all rights reserved
tags
about
Kalpamantra UK
Dark ambient digital
label, circa 2009.
discography
-
Mar 2022 -
Nov 2021 -
Jun 2018 -
Dec 2017
contact / help
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