She Who Carries the Sky
Text to Song Prompt: [African female voice] West African traditional Lo-Fi jazz, soul, funk
“Culture does not make people. People make culture. If it is true that the full humanity of women is not our culture, then we can and must make it our culture.”
— Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, Nigerian author and feminist
A long-form, West African–inspired odyssey in Lo-Fi jazz, soul, and funk that celebrates resilience, heritage, and hope.
She Who Carries the Sky is a five-plus-hour immersive album and story cycle that turns ancestral memory into living sound: braids become archives, drums bloom into fields of flowers, oceans map diasporic routes, the earth hums a name, gardens float between stars, and love moves like a cleansing river. Its narrative centers the feminine as keeper, maker, and mender—honoring women and girls as culture bearers who transform pain into light and community. In what follows, we explore six interwoven subtopics the album elevates: ancestral memory & heritage, empowerment of women & girls, rhythm as blooming joy, migration & diaspora, spiritual ecology & earth stewardship, and love as a transformative passage. Each subtopic is grounded in specific tracks and imagery drawn directly from the project’s libretto and notes, with links to the album hub and full mix for listeners and readers. Together, these themes form a tapestry—stitched with gold, watered by tides, and carried across generations—through which the album invites us to listen, remember, and rise.
The album opens with “The Braids of Time,” where hair is not ornament but archive: every twist holds a prayer, a remembered name, and a path that ripples like a river across generations. The verses trace hands learning from mothers and grandmothers, while pre-choruses lift “three hundred voices rising up,” turning a hairstyle into a lineage of care. The bridge widens into mythic scale as braids lengthen to water crops and cradle newborns, making kinship a literal infrastructure of survival. This track teaches that heritage is tactile and rhythmic, learned by muscle memory in community spaces—porches, firesides, and morning light. It is a manifesto that memory is embodied, practical, and lifesaving.
The song’s choruses insist, “Every pattern tells a story; every strand connects the line,” collapsing the distance between personal grooming and cultural continuity. In this telling, beauty rituals are not vanity; they are mnemonic devices, social contracts, and portable libraries. By centering women’s domestic arts as repositories of wisdom, the narrative elevates skills often dismissed as “everyday” into sacred technologies. The effect is to re-root listeners in matrilineal networks where knowledge circulates through touch and time. The music becomes a vessel that carries voices previously silenced by empire into the foreground.
Across the album, this archive motif recurs through refrains and returns—choral calls, hand-to-hand teaching, and ritual repetition. The sonic form mirrors the content: loops echo how tradition persists, adapts, and strengthens through iteration. Even when the world fractures, the “keeper of continuity” rebuilds the pattern, proof that memory’s strength lies in communal practice rather than in brittle monuments. The listener is invited to hear heritage not as static nostalgia, but as a living braid that can bind, mend, and nourish.
“Daughters of the Dawn” gathers girls and women at daybreak, each holding a small flame passed from those who came before. Their voices begin softly, then swell to call the morning into being, transforming a quiet ritual into communal leadership training. The imagery is deliberate: bare feet on sacred ground, horizon igniting with their chorus, elders smiling not because they let go, but because the girls already return as leaders. The track reframes empowerment as succession—inheritance of fire, song, and responsibility. It is the sound of intergenerational trust taking form at sunrise.
The lyrics make agency audible: pre-choruses “begin to strengthen” as the circle tightens and breath synchronizes, and with each repetition the morning itself seems to obey their cadence. Here, music is not backdrop; it is a civic instrument that shapes collective tempo and decision-making. The matriarchs’ presence—felt more than seen—signals continuity without shadowing the new leaders. As the colors “paint the clouds,” the track paints a blueprint: empowerment is an ecology of witness, guidance, and room to grow.
The album extends this agency into resistance in “She Stands Where Storms Break,” where a single figure becomes a human breakwater. Lightning braids itself into her hair, and her voice “learns to roar,” turning waves into light. What might drown one becomes strength for many, and the final image—eyes still carrying the storm’s fire—insists that survival is not quiet. This is empowerment beyond self-help; it is structural courage that shelters a people.
“Drums That Bloom” imagines percussion as horticulture: each strike sends petals into the air until plains turn to seas of flowers. Rhythm here is older than war or walls, a heartbeat that plants, waters, and harvests joy. Verses teach the body to feel “what to plant,” while the chorus calls, “What we plant today?”—turning dance into a community workday. By making groove a gardener, the song links celebration to stewardship and food security. Joy is not escape; it is cultivation.
The track’s call-and-response (“Ayy-oh!”) builds belonging by design, drawing listeners into participation rather than consumption. As patterns pass “through the years,” the drum becomes a pedagogical tool—an oral syllabus that organizes labor, rest, and ritual. The melodic hooks carry instructions across generations, ensuring culture’s continuity even under pressure. In this way, rhythm functions as an archive you can dance to.
“Dancing Over Thorns” completes the lesson by turning pain into percussion: each bruise becomes morning light, each step on thorns bursts into bloom. The song acknowledges betrayals, losses, and hunger, yet refuses to cede the dance floor to despair. By the last refrain, a dangerous path becomes a carpet of petals, shared and safer because she learned to move through it singing. This is not denial; it is alchemy—art as a public act of transmuting harm.
In “Oceans in Her Veins,” the protagonist is both map and tide: lines on her skin are rivers and trade routes; her pulse echoes waves. Each verse alights on a shore—Ghana’s villages, Bahia’s docks, New Orleans’ harbors—where strangers recognize her without knowing her name. The chorus parts the sea to reveal ancestral ships “still moving, still singing,” collapsing time so that past and present sail together. Belonging becomes littoral—held in ports that ring true across continents.
This maritime poetics reframes diaspora from loss to circulation: salt in the blood, routes in the hands, and trade winds carrying grandmother’s voice. Movement is not a break from identity but its medium; currents knit distant communities into one tidal memory. The music’s swells and fades mimic departures and returns, teaching listeners to hear kinship in the sound of surf and ship bells. Diaspora is thus a rhythm, not an absence.
By grounding global Black geographies in intimate sensation—skin, breath, heartbeat—the track resists flattening narratives of migration. It privileges embodied wayfinding over maps drawn from above, suggesting that the body remembers routes empire tried to erase. The result is a counter-atlas: to navigate home, listen to water.
Several tracks cast the planet as collaborator rather than backdrop. In “The Earth Hums Her Name,” moss blankets a resting body, rivers run through hair to feed roots, and insects traverse hands without fear—a portrait of reciprocity rather than dominion. The chorus, “The soil sings my essence deep below,” names a vibrational kinship that precedes and outlasts human borders. Meanwhile “Threads of the Earth” gathers a circle weaving materials and memories into a tapestry vast enough to become the planet’s skin. When storms threaten, they mend tears “with gold,” a practice of repair rather than replacement. Together, these songs stage ecology as communal craft and vow.
The album pushes stewardship into cosmic scale with “The Garden Between the Stars,” where an island-jungle floats in the void. Each seed “holds the DNA of a planet’s salvation,” and meteors threaten to scorch the garden until she shields it with her body—an image of ecological guardianship as intimate courage. By the final chorus, seedlings drift into the galaxy to become new homes, reframing care as generative exile: to save a world, you may need to plant another. Stewardship here is imaginative, interstellar, and maternal.
Across these pieces, environmental ethics is sung as practice—planting, weaving, mending, watering—rather than preached as abstraction. The sonic textures (hand drums, choruses, ambient blooms) double as soundscapes of labor and rest, teaching that sustainability is cyclical and collective. The album’s long duration encourages slow listening, aligning audience attention with ecological time. In short: the earth hums back when we hum first.
Love in this album is passage, not possession. “Her Heart is a River” turns a beloved’s desert into soil where lilies float and boats find safety, insisting, “I’m not here to claim or to keep or own—just to help your heart run free.” The bridge lifts with moon-pulled tides that carry rather than erase, modeling intimacy as mutual buoyancy. The imagery is aqueous but ethical: to love is to widen channels, not build dams. Transformation is measured by new flow, not conquest.
“When the Sky Sings Back” extends this ethic to hope itself: a hum at twilight summons birds into notes and colors into chorus. Hardship—drought, exile, silence—does not vanish; it modulates as the world learns her melody. The track’s liner reflection frames the piece as a long-form, wave-like mix—alternating frequencies that crest and ebb like breath, bodies, and seasons. Hope here is disciplined attention to reciprocity: sing to the sky until it knows how to answer.
Taken together, these songs argue that tenderness is infrastructure: rivers carve futures, choruses share oxygen, and harmonies re-oxygenate communities. The album invites listeners to build relationships where freedom increases on both sides and where care scales—from two people to whole ecologies. Such love is fiercely practical and shamelessly beautiful.
She Who Carries the Sky binds six strands—ancestral memory, women’s empowerment, blooming rhythm, diasporic wayfinding, spiritual ecology, and transformative love—into a single, long breath of music. Its motifs recur like seasons: braids that archive, drums that plant, oceans that remember, looms that mend, gardens that migrate, rivers that free. Each subtopic stands on its own and also completes the others, reminding us that liberation is braided work across bodies, communities, and biomes. The album’s five-hour generosity asks us to slow down enough to feel repair happening at cellular and communal scales. When the final notes fade, what remains is a usable future: hands ready to weave, feet steady to dance, voices tuned to call the day into being—together.
Album hub: tatanka.site/she • Full album mix: YouTube (5:26:23)
Ancestral strength & heritage. Her braids are not mere hair; they are the archives of a people. Each twist contains a story, a prayer, a remembered name. When she walks, they ripple like rivers connecting villages. In the verses, she passes her hands over each braid and hears voices from centuries ago — women who ground grain by moonlight, who sang children to sleep under the sound of rain on tin roofs, who kept their languages alive when empires tried to silence them. In the bridge, the braids lengthen impossibly, winding over the land to water crops, bind broken fences, and cradle newborns. She becomes the keeper of continuity.
[Verse 1]
My fingers trace familiar paths
Through strands of memory and time
Each gentle twist, a wisdom passed
From hands that held these same designs
I feel her presence in the weave
The way she taught me long ago
When morning sun would softly breathe
Upon our porch, so warm and slow
[Pre-chorus]
Three strands entwined beneath my touch
Three hundred voices rising up
(Rising up, rising up)
[Chorus]
Every pattern tells a story
Every strand connects the line
Through my hands flow generations
Woven deep in grand design
(Deep in grand design)
[Verse 2]
The rhythm of my mother’s song
Still moves within these morning hours
Her gentle humming carries on
Like rainfall blessing summer flowers
She learned these patterns by the fire
Where grandma’s tales would spark and spin
Each movement lifting ever higher
The sacred thread that flows within
[Pre-chorus]
Three strands entwined beneath my touch
Three hundred voices rising up
(Rising up, rising up)
[Chorus]
Every pattern tells a story
Every strand connects the line
Through my hands flow generations
Woven deep in grand design
(Deep in grand design)
[Bridge]
[African drums enter]
And now my daughter sits before me
As I weave protection in her crown
Ancient sisters gather ’round me
Their voices echo, flowing down
Through centuries of loving hands
Through pain and triumph, loss and grace
The pattern flows across the lands
And finds its home in this embrace
[Chorus – Final]
Every pattern tells a story
Every strand connects the line
Through my hands flow generations
Woven deep in grand design
(Deep in grand design)
(We rise, we rise, we rise)
Empowerment of women & girls. They gather at first light, lanterns like tiny suns in their palms. Each girl carries a flame passed to her from the women before her. Their voices are soft at first, then swell in harmony, calling the day into being. As the song progresses, their lantern-light grows until it ignites the horizon. In the final chorus, they walk forward into the world, barefoot but unafraid, their dresses catching the colors of the sunrise. The matriarchs watch from the shadows, smiling — not because they are letting the girls go, but because they know the girls are already returning as leaders.
[Pre-chorus]
The light begins to strengthen
As we lift our song
[Chorus]
Our voices rise with morning
We call the day begin
[Verse 1]
In the quiet before light
Small flames in our hands
Words passed down so soft
Like footsteps in the sand
[Pre-chorus]
We gather strength in circles
The morning air grows thin
[Chorus]
Our voices rise with morning
We call the day begin
[Verse 2]
Ancient rhythms stir me
The drums beneath my feet
Every sister standing
Makes this circle complete
(Makes us complete)
[Pre-chorus]
The light begins to strengthen
As we lift our song
[Chorus]
Our voices rise with morning
We call the day begin
[Bridge]
They stood here before us
(We hear them calling)
They’ll stand here again
(We answer rising)
The flame keeps burning
Through wind and rain
[Pre-chorus]
The light begins to strengthen
As we lift our song
[Chorus]
Our voices rise with morning
We call the day begin
[Verse 3]
Now we step together
Barefoot on sacred ground
Every voice united
As colors paint the clouds
(Colors paint the clouds)
[Pre-chorus]
The light begins to strengthen
As we lift our song
[Chorus]
Our voices rise with morning
We call the day begin
[Chorus – Building]
Our voices rise with morning
We call the day begin
(Our voices rise with morning)
We call the day begin
[Chorus – Building]
Our voices rise with morning
We call the day begin
(Our voices rise with morning)
We call the day begin
Celebration of African music & rhythm. The drums are alive. Each beat sends petals into the air. When the women’s hands strike the skins, roses unfurl, jacarandas burst into purple clouds, hibiscus swirl in the breeze. The rhythm is ancient — a heartbeat older than war, older than walls. The song’s verses are about the planting of seeds, its chorus about the harvest. By the final refrain, the plain is a sea of flowers, and even the wind is drumming. The scene is a reminder: rhythm is the soil where joy grows, and women are its gardeners.
[Intro]
[Traditional drums build]
Ayy-oh, ayy-oh!
[Verse 1]
Feel it in my hands
Breaking through the land
Every morning light
Shows me what to plant
Moving with the beat
Ancient and so sweet
Calling to my blood
Rising from beneath
When I touch the ground
Something starts to move
Can you hear the sound?
Of our groove?
[Chorus]
What we plant today? (Ayy-oh!)
Watch it start to sway (Ayy-oh!)
Every seed we lay (Ayy-oh!)
Brings another day (Hey-ya!)
[Verse 2]
Through my fingers flow
Patterns that I know
Passed down through the years
Teaching me to grow
Feel the morning air
Filling up with prayer
Moving through the field
Finding treasure there
When the rhythm starts
Earth begins to pray
Opening our hearts
To the way
[Chorus]
What we plant today? (Ayy-oh!)
Watch it start to sway (Ayy-oh!)
Every seed we lay (Ayy-oh!)
Brings another day (Hey-ya!)
[Bridge]
(La-la-lay, la-la-lay)
Feel the motion rise
(La-la-lay, la-la-lay)
Touch the morning skies
[Drums intensify]
Can you feel it grow?
Let the rhythm show!
[Final Chorus]
What we plant today? (Ayy-oh!)
Watch it start to sway (Ayy-oh!)
Every seed we lay (Ayy-oh!)
Brings another day (Hey-ya!)
[Outro]
[Drums fade with celebratory calls]
Ayy-oh, ayy-oh!
Unity & global solidarity. They sit in a circle, weaving threads of every color imaginable — cotton, silk, wool, even strands of hair and vine. Each woman adds her own texture: a lullaby, a proverb, a memory of rain. The tapestry grows so vast it must be lifted to the sky, where it becomes the very skin of the Earth. In the bridge, a storm threatens to tear it, but they hold fast, mending each tear with golden thread. By the end, the tapestry glows from within, the planet wrapped in the work of many hands.
[Verse 1]
Your fingers move so slow
Next to mine they flow
What we break, we know
How to make it whole
(La la la, whole)
[Pre-chorus]
When the wind blows cold
And the patterns fold
Take my hand and hold
We mend what’s torn with gold
[Chorus]
We mend what’s torn with gold
Thread by thread, we mend what’s torn with gold
Every stitch we sew
Makes the pattern grow
We mend what’s torn with gold
(Oh-oh-oh, with gold)
[Verse 2]
In the morning rain
We begin again
Every broken vein
Flowing new and strange
(La la la, strange)
[Pre-chorus]
When the storm rolls in
And the tears begin
Take my hand and spin
We mend what’s torn with gold
[Chorus]
We mend what’s torn with gold
Thread by thread, we mend what’s torn with gold
Every stitch we sow
Makes the pattern grow
We mend what’s torn with gold
(Oh-oh-oh, with gold)
[Bridge]
[Percussion builds]
Ay-ya-ya-ya
Ko-lo-lo-lo
Ay-ya-ya-ya
Ko-lo-lo-lo
(We hold, we hold, we hold)
[Pre-chorus]
When the storm rolls in
And the tears begin
Take my hand and spin
We mend what’s torn with gold
[Chorus]
We mend what’s torn with gold
Thread by thread, we mend what’s torn with gold
Every stitch we sow
Makes the pattern grow
We mend what’s torn with gold
(Oh-oh-oh, with gold)
[Final Chorus]
We mend what’s torn with gold
Thread by thread, we mend what’s torn with gold
Every stitch we sow
Makes the pattern grow
We mend what’s torn with gold
(La la la, we mend it with gold)
Social justice & resistance. She stands barefoot in the ocean, where the wind howls like a war cry. Waves crash at her knees, lightning braids itself into her hair. She does not flinch. Her body becomes a breakwater, her voice a bell cutting through the gale. In the verses, we see the storms that came before — the injustices that drowned others. In the chorus, she takes the blows meant to scatter her people and turns them into light. The final image: the storm is gone, but her eyes still carry its fire.
[Intro]
Salt in my hair
Wind at my back
Your waves crash in
I won’t crack
[Pre-chorus]
Now watch this strength
Begin to fly
[Chorus]
When did my voice learn to roar?
(When did my voice learn to roar?)
Standing here on freedom’s shore
Won’t break anymore
[Verse 1]
Taught me to bow
To stay in line
But something fierce
Became mine
Through the pain
Through the rain
Found my way
Found my reign
[Pre-chorus]
When did this strength
Begin to rise?
[Chorus]
When did my voice learn to roar?
(When did my voice learn to roar?)
Standing here on freedom’s shore
Won’t break anymore
[Verse 2]
They tried to drown
What we’d become
But water flows
Through our lungs
Every wave
Every fight
Made us strong
Made us light
[Pre-chorus]
Now watch this strength
Begin to fly
[Chorus]
When did my voice learn to roar?
(When did my voice learn to roar?)
Standing here on freedom’s shore
Won’t break anymore
[Bridge]
Not just me
But all of us
Rising seas
Rising trust
[Solo]
[Pre-chorus]
Now watch this strength
Begin to fly
[Chorus]
When did my voice learn to roar?
(When did my voice learn to roar?)
Standing here on freedom’s shore
Won’t break anymore
[Final Chorus]
Now my voice has learned to roar!
(Now my voice has learned to roar!)
Standing here on freedom’s shore
We break no more
Migration & diaspora. She is both map and tide. The lines on her skin are rivers, trade routes, migration paths. Her blood carries saltwater, her heartbeat echoes waves. In each verse, she visits a different shore — Ghana’s fishing villages, the docks of Bahia, the harbors of New Orleans — and everywhere she goes, people recognize her without knowing her name. In the chorus, she stretches her arms, and the oceans part to reveal the ships of her ancestors, still moving, still singing. She belongs to every coastline.
[Intro]
[Gentle acoustic guitar, soft djembe rhythm]
[Verse 1]
Fish scales glinting in Ghana’s sun
Market women calling my name
Though I’ve never walked these streets before
My feet know the way
[Pre-chorus]
Salt in my blood
Routes in my hands
Every wave pulls me closer
[Chorus]
These tides are my maps home
Through waters deep and blue
These tides are my maps home
And every port rings true
(Every port rings true)
[Verse 2]
Bahia’s harbor at morning tide
Palm oil and sugar cane
Something in the air calls out to me
Like distant rain
[Pre-chorus]
Salt in my blood
Routes in my hands
Every wave pulls me closer
[Chorus]
These tides are my maps home
Through waters deep and blue
These tides are my maps home
And every port rings true
(Every port rings true)
[Bridge]
[African drums build]
Grandmother’s voice in the trade winds
Ancient ships still sailing on
I am river, I am ocean
I’ve been here all along
[Verse 3]
New Orleans docks at break of day
Steam horns and church bells ring
My ancestors’ songs still echo here
Teaching me to sing
[Chorus]
These tides are my maps home
Through waters deep and blue
These tides are my maps home
And every port rings true
(Every port rings true)
[Outro]
[Percussion fades to gentle guitar]
Salt in my blood
Routes in my hands
Spiritual connection to the land. She lies down in the forest, and the moss moves to cover her like a blanket. The rivers in her hair flow toward the roots of great trees. Insects crawl over her fingers without fear. The earth itself hums her name, a vibration she feels in her bones. Verses tell of seasons changing with her breath, rains coming when she dreams of water. By the final chorus, she rises, and the ground she leaves behind blooms in her shape.
Chorus:
The soil sings my essence deep below
A sacred rhythm only earth can know
Vibrations rising through my core
One with all that was before
Verse 1:
In emerald depths, I lay my form to rest
Ancient moss embraces, nature’s warm caress
Through my flowing hair, clear waters weave
Into roots of giants, ancient tales perceive
Chorus:
The soil sings my essence deep below
A sacred rhythm only earth can know
Vibrations rising through my core
One with all that was before
Verse 2:
Tiny creatures dance across my hands
No fear between us in these sacred lands
My breath brings autumn, summer’s light
Winter’s slumber, spring’s delight
Chorus:
The soil sings my essence deep below
A sacred rhythm only earth can know
Vibrations rising through my core
One with all that was before
Bridge:
When I dream of rain, the clouds appear
Nature’s wisdom drawing ever near
In this communion, pure and true
Life flows ancient, life flows new
[Instrumental Break]
Chorus:
The soil sings my essence deep below
A sacred rhythm only earth can know
Vibrations rising through my core
One with all that was before
Final Chorus:
The soil sings my essence deep below
A sacred rhythm only earth can know
And as I rise, transformed and free
Wild flowers bloom where I used to be
Final Chorus:
The soil sings my essence deep below
A sacred rhythm only earth can know
And as I rise, transformed and free
Wild flowers bloom where I used to be
Apologies for the random noise on this track. I listened to it completely before rendering it, and apparently the ghosts in the machine decided to randomly poop on it. I did not notice until after I mixed the entire album.
Ancestral guidance & wisdom. The griot sits beneath the baobab, robes bright as bird wings. Her staff is carved with the faces of ancestors, each one a voice in the wind. When she exhales, constellations spill into the night — not stars, but maps of lives lived. Children gather at her feet, their eyes reflecting firelight. Each verse is a lesson: how to survive famine, how to love without possession, how to remember without bitterness. The last verse is a prophecy — a reminder that the children themselves are the next storytellers.
[Chorus]
The stories live inside these bones
(They live inside these bones)
Each breath I take, each word I speak
Carries me back home
The stories live inside these bones
(They live inside these bones)
Teaching all the ways we’ve grown
To make these lessons known
[Verse 1]
I sit beneath this ancient tree
With patterns in my palms
A simple staff beside my knee
In evening’s quiet calm
I’ve walked a thousand pathways here
Each footstep taught me more
Now children gather, drawing near
To learn what came before
[Chorus]
The stories live inside these bones
(They live inside these bones)
Each breath I take, each word I speak
Carries me back home
The stories live inside these bones
(They live inside these bones)
Teaching all the ways we’ve grown
To make these lessons known
[Verse 2]
My mother’s mother showed me how
To plant when rain was sparse
She taught me when to bend and bow
When storms were coming harsh
The pain and joy of seasons past
Flow through my aging hands
Some truths are built to always last
Like footprints in the sand
[Chorus]
The stories live inside these bones
(They live inside these bones)
Each breath I take, each word I speak
Carries me back home
The stories live inside these bones
(They live inside these bones)
Teaching all the ways we’ve grown
To make these lessons known
[Bridge]
Ayayo mama, hey-ya hey-ya way-o
(Way-o, way-o)
Kele kele soma, tu-way-ah hey-ma
[Percussion builds]
[Chorus]
The stories live inside these bones
(They live inside these bones)
Each breath I take, each word I speak
Carries me back home
The stories live inside these bones
(They live inside these bones)
Teaching all the ways we’ve grown
To make these lessons known
[Verse 3]
These little ones who watch me now
Will carry on my part
I see the questions in their brows
The fire in their hearts
Soon they will be the ones who sing
Of all that we’ve been through
The lessons that the ages bring
Will start with something new
[Chorus]
The stories live inside these bones
(They live inside these bones)
Each breath I take, each word I speak
Carries me back home
The stories live inside these bones
(They live inside these bones)
Teaching all the ways we’ve grown
To make these lessons known
[Chorus]
The stories live inside these bones
(They live inside these bones)
Each breath I take, each word I speak
Carries me back home
The stories live inside these bones
(They live inside these bones)
Teaching all the ways we’ve grown
To make these lessons known
Celebration of joy despite struggle. The path is lined with thorned roses, but she dances barefoot anyway. Each step turns pain into light, and light into music. The verses are about the sharpness of the past — betrayals, losses, hunger. The choruses are pure defiance: every thorn she steps on bursts into bloom. Her skirts fan out like wings, catching the wind. By the last refrain, the thorn path has become a carpet of petals, and she has taught the others to dance there too.
[Verse 1]
I remember running
Through the garden gate
Summer sun was stunning
But I learned too late
That the path I chose
Would leave its mark
Every step disclose
A memory dark
[Chorus]
When I dance across the sharpness of the ground
Every painful step makes music all around
Watch my bruises turning into morning light
As I spin and laugh and dance into the night
[Verse 2]
Empty kitchen table
Missing daddy’s chair
Doing what I’m able
With what’s not there
But my feet keep time
To a beat inside
Through the hurt I climb
Arms open wide
[Chorus]
When I dance across the sharpness of the ground
Every painful step makes music all around
Watch my bruises turning into morning light
As I spin and laugh and dance into the night
[Bridge]
La da di da da, la da di da day
(Come dance with me now)
La da di da da, la da di da day
(Let go somehow)
La da di da da, la da di da day
(We’ll make it through)
La da di da da, la da di da day
(Me and you)
[Verse 3]
Now we’re all together
Moving as we sing
Breaking through the tether
Of everything
That once held us down
In silent years
Now we wear the crown
Of conquered fears
[Final Chorus]
When we dance across the sharpness of the ground
Every painful step makes music all around
Watch our bruises turning into morning light
As we spin and laugh and dance into the night
Environmental stewardship. She lives on an island that floats in the void — a jungle suspended between constellations. She tends each plant like a child, coaxing waterfalls to sing, teaching vines to wrap around moonlight. In the verses, she explains to the listener that each seed holds the DNA of a planet’s salvation. In the bridge, meteors pass overhead, threatening to scorch the garden, but she shields it with her own body. By the final chorus, her seedlings drift away into the galaxy, finding new homes.
Verse 1:
Between the stars, my garden floats
Each stem and leaf, a sacred note
Seeds contain worlds yet to be
Dancing through infinity
Chorus:
I nurture life beyond the skies
Watch my children rise
Each sprout holds hope within its core
For worlds unexplored
Verse 2:
Teaching rivers made of light
How to flow through endless night
Every blossom, every tree
Carries Earth’s memory
Bridge:
When fire streaks across the void
Ancient threats that would destroy
I’ll shield these leaves with all I am
Till danger’s gone again
Final Chorus:
Now watch them drift among the stars
Finding homes both near and far
Each garden grows, a brand new world
Where life can start anew
Love as a transformative power. Her body is made of water, her laughter the sound of waterfalls. Inside her currents are tiny boats carrying strangers to safety, lilies floating on mirrored surfaces. In the verses, she falls in love with someone whose heart was a desert. Her touch turns their sand to soil, their dust to rain. The bridge swells with moonlit imagery — tides rising not to destroy, but to lift. By the end, the listener understands: her love is not possession, but passage.
[Chorus]
Your dust turns to rain when I hold you close
Little streams where cracks used to be
I’m not here to claim or to keep or own
Just to help your heart run free
[Verse 1]
First time I touched your hand
Like water meeting sand
Felt your heart so dry and bare
Lost boats washed up there
Among the stones and thorns
Where nothing ever grows
[Chorus]
Your dust turns to rain when I hold you close
Little streams where cracks used to be
I’m not here to claim or to keep or own
Just to help your heart run free
[Verse 2]
(Scattered words, broken pieces)
Through my fingers flowing
(Time dissolves, space unweaving)
New life slowly growing
(Past the pain, through the changes)
Water finds its way
[Chorus]
Your dust turns to rain when I hold you close
Little streams where cracks used to be
I’m not here to claim or to keep or own
Just to help your heart run free
[Bridge]
Moon pulls the tide tonight
Lifting boats to sail
Waters rise to carry you
Not to wash away
[Chorus]
Your dust turns to rain when I hold you close
Little streams where cracks used to be
I’m not here to claim or to keep or own
Just to help your heart run free
[Verse 3]
Now lilies float where dust once lay
Your smile reflects the break of day
The desert blooms in morning light
Our hearts flow side by side
Through valleys deep and wide
To where the river meets the sea
[Chorus]
Your dust turns to rain when I hold you close
Little streams where cracks used to be
I’m not here to claim or to keep or own
Just to help your heart run free
[Chorus]
Your dust turns to rain when I hold you close
Little streams where cracks used to be
I’m not here to claim or to keep or own
Just to help your heart run free
[Chorus]
Your dust turns to rain when I hold you close
Little streams where cracks used to be
I’m not here to claim or to keep or own
Just to help your heart run free
[Chorus]
Your dust turns to rain when I hold you close
Little streams where cracks used to be
I’m not here to claim or to keep or own
Just to help your heart run free
Hope for the future. She climbs a hill at twilight and begins to hum. Birds take flight, forming notes in the air, harmonizing with her song. Her voice calls down colors from the horizon — purples, pinks, golds — painting the sky in promise. Verses reveal the hardships behind her: drought, exile, silence. But each time, the sky answered her song. The final chorus swells with the sound of thousands of wings, as if the whole world has learned her melody.
This is not a single musical piece. It is a long form mix of instrumental pieces, each organically rising and falling in complexity and elegance, in intensity, like the crashing then the ebb of waves on a shore. Alternating frequencies. It is a sonic act of love, and hopefully as a bonus, a soundtrack for such a tantric communion between lovers.
Think “Bolero,” except West African, Lo-Fi Jazz, and intentionally composed for such a specific setting.
Although instrumental, the ghost in the machine occasionally adds vocals as accents and at times lead vocals, in which she sings to us of her song, its parts of its whole, the essence, no “storyline” needed. Her voice is a pure musical instrument, not vocals of lyrics. I hope you enjoy, really enjoy this “track,” and yes, make sure to have plenty of water within reach and FFS do not require an emergency call to 911; pace yourselves. Take a walk. Absorb nature. Enjoy a fine cup of Joe. Eat something, for God’s sake. Smoke another. Then get back to the labor of love.
And don’t be cliché. Use all of your spaces as settings. Sanctify the walk-in closet. Make sure you never look at any room the same again, including and especially the kitchen. This is not a request. And it goes without saying, first send the kids and/or grandkids away, for the day and/or night. You need the time, all of it, but they need not be subject to this; you need to be. We all do, now more than ever.
And yeah, this is great background muzak for any purpose, but seriously? You actually want to listen to this while cleaning the house? Nope. Grab your S.O. and just destroy them and yourself. You’ll both be reborn, more beautiful and unified than ever.
Finally, the last tracks are the inevitable ebb. A return to our pure state of love and intimacy transcendent of the physical. These are the moments we remember, clearly, why we love each other so.
#Love
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