R&B mix of demo song, using AI assisted vocals. Lyrics video available at: 
https://youtu.be/ztQOdWpq-rI

Now You See Me, Then You Don't (R&B mix)

This chant-rap embodies a spiritual journey through fire and transformation, blending elements of shamanic wisdom, personal redemption, and ancestral echoes. The song follows a protagonist facing their past, navigating trials of the soul, and embracing the flames of change. Through rhythmic verses and primal chants, it captures the essence of breaking free from pain, reclaiming inner strength, and rising beyond fear.

The chorus acts as a mantra, reinforcing the relentless pursuit of transcendence, while the chants channel ancient energy, grounding the song in ritualistic power. The fire, a recurring theme, represents destruction and rebirth, a shaman’s test, and the cleansing of the past.

By the final verse, the protagonist has shed their burdens, embraced their purpose, and emerged stronger, no longer bound by old chains. The closing chant seals the transformation, leaving the listener with a sense of empowerment, resilience, and spiritual ascension.

#ShamanSolace #AChantRap #SpiritAwakening #FireTrial #RiseAgain #ShamanicJourney #RapChant #NeoShamanism #SoulRebirth #FeelTheFlame #SpiritualHipHop #EchoesOfThePast #BreakTheChains #WalkThePath #SmokeAndFire #SacredBeats #ChantAndFlow #LostToLight #TakeTheLeap #AncientRhythms



Spirits Test [Track #2]

Falling Deeper

wenn sie wüssten

Everyone carries their burden

By Faith Alone- Let your heart be lifted and your spirit renewed with Grow in Grace—a breathtaking 34-track journey through the divine love and unshakable faith that define God’s grace. This album is a sacred testament to His blessings, unfolding through the lives of those who walked by faith and witnessed His miracles, from the Old and New Testaments and beyond. Through the unwavering devotion of Ruth, the courage of Esther, the anointing of David, and the steadfast trust of Abraham, Grow in Grace brings to life the faith-filled stories of Samuel, Gideon, Moses, Rahab, and many more. Each song is a heartfelt reflection of God’s mercy, His promises, and the transformative power of believing in Jesus Christ. With melodies that inspire worship and lyrics that echo the depths of spiritual love, Grow in Grace is a perfect fit for churches, personal devotion, and Christian playlists. At its core, this album delivers an everlasting truth: God blesses all who trust in Him and grow in His grace. Let each song draw you closer to the One whose love is eternal.

By Faith Alone

Here's a description for your SoundCloud upload of "Quiet Storm":

"Quiet Storm" explores the silent battles we fight behind closed doors. Through ambient textures and vulnerable vocals, this track navigates the contrast between outward composure and inner turmoil. A journey through darkness that ultimately finds solace in emotional release, "Quiet Storm" speaks to anyone who's ever worn a smile while drowning inside. The atmospheric production creates a sonic landscape where whispered confessions echo against gentle electronic pulses, inviting listeners to find comfort in shared vulnerability.

Quiet Storm

Time is slow, time is fast.
It never stops, but it always lasts.
It's time for bed, it's time for school.
To waste your time is to be a fool.

Gray day, but the window cracked, breeze like breath from spring,
Tima sits cross-legged, every plush in a ring.
Hoppy’s upright, Patchy’s proud, my seams slightly slouching,
She straightens my bow, says, “Boe’s best at announcing.”
She pours the air like it’s gold from the moon,
Tiny cups lined up, teacakes made of tune.
She whispers, “Star tea, cloud tea, sea tea”
Her voice small-spelled with the shine of belief in me.
I nod. Or maybe I don’t. But she sees it.
Eyes stitched wide but I feel where the tea hits.
“Tincle tincle seren fash,” she sings,
And somewhere in my stuffing, something swings.
Not a heartbeat. Not a thought.
But a hymn—a thread, a not-forgot.

Threadbare hymn in the afternoon,
Dust in the light, lace near the moon.
Not broken, just worn, not faded but known,
We were the choir when she played alone.
One note held, one hand brushed,
Time stitched soft, but not in a rush.

She stood up once, didn’t come back that night,
I waited through dusk, past the hallway light.
Days stretched sideways, weeks got long,
Nobody poured tea, no whispered song.
Patchy leaned in, Hoppy just sighed,
I stayed where she left me, tried not to cry.
Rooms change scent when the sun don’t speak,
Curtains hung heavy, floorboards creaked.
Sometimes a hum floated in from below,
Not her hum. But a hum I used to know.
Seasons turned. My bow came loose.
But I held her shape like a sacred truth.
Every now and then, a door would stir,
But it wasn’t her. It wasn’t her.

The walls don’t whisper, they wait.
The toys don’t age, they ache.
Not for movement—but for meaning.
For hands that know the holding.

Threadbare hymn in the quiet night,
Stars blink slow, moon pulls tight.
Still stitched strong, though soft at seams,
Carried her hopes, her cloud-tea dreams.
One breath more, one breath less,
Still I wait in her wilderness.

The house sighs when he steps through the frame,
Same coat, same shoes, same quiet name.
He don’t speak, not at first, not aloud,
Just climbs the stairs through memory’s crowd.
Door creaks open, dust swirls slow,
I’m where I’ve been, still holding glow.
He kneels—eyes cracked, breath half-gone,
Picks me up like I’m some old song.
And he holds—just holds—like it’s all he’s got,
Like I’m more than fur, more than a thought.
His chest shakes soft, but he don’t let go,
And in that moment, I almost know—
We both waited,
Not alone.

Threadbare hymn with a woven name,
Tima, in stars, still part of the flame.
Not gone, not dust, not far nor old,
Just held in paws, in coats, in gold.
You don’t break what love still keeps,
You just learn how thread still speaks.

He stands, still holding me tight,
Room still dim, but his eyes hold light.
Down the stairs, slow and low,
Each step sings what we used to know.
Through the door, out to the day,
Snow in the air in a springtime way.
A child’s voice calls from past the gate,
He tucks me close and walks toward fate.
Maybe it’s her. Maybe it’s not.
But love, in time, forgets what it forgot.
And as he walks, and the world hums wide,
I’m not just waiting—
I’m by his side.

Some lullabies don’t end with sleep.
Some threads fray but still they keep.

Some people have lots of time to spare.
Others spend their time not having a care.
It's time to stop, it's time to go.
Time can move fast or it can move slow.
You can lose yourself or lose your mind,
But as life goes on you will never lose time.

Threadbare hymn

Gud som haver barnen kär,
se till mig som liten är.
Vart jag mig i världen vänder,
står min lycka i Guds händer.
Lyckan kommer, lyckan går,
du förbliver, Fader vår.

She’s curled like spring in the crook of my side,
hair in her mouth, little sighs as she hides.
Dreaming, maybe, of dogs or moons,
I don’t move. Just breathe and let the room bloom.
Kettle hums in the other space,
like grief knows how to set the pace.
I blink once. The light is low,
blanket tucked like falling snow.
She stirs—smile blooming slow—
eyes half open, voice below:

“Is it morning?”

“Nearly,” I say.
She snuggles in.
And I let it stay.

A kettle’s to care,
not just to boil.
It sings for the living
and hums for the soil.
It’s grief in the quiet,
love on repeat—
something to rise to,
something to heat.

Breakfast smells like cinnamon bread,
she insists on butter to the edge instead.
Orange juice spill, we laugh, we fix—
she makes up songs with perfect mix.
Mittens by the door, boots too big,
she hops like frost is some kind of gig.
Outside the air is sharp and kind,
sky like slate with a silver line.
We race past trees that lost their coats,
she names each bird with made-up notes.
And in her voice, I hear a ghost—
not haunting—
but memory’s toast.

I carry her in the way I pause—
before I speak,
before I pour.
In each small moment,
grief is care.

A kettle’s to care,
when no one can see.
It hums before light,
for the you that is me.
It’s hands in her hair,
it’s tea in a cup—
a song without chorus,
that still shows up.

We find a café with a fogged-up pane,
she draws hearts and clouds and writes my name.
Hot cocoa, crumbs, she counts the chairs,
asks if birds still live in pairs.
I nod, and wonder what I used to ask,
before the years wore off the mask.
Later we swim in the local pool,
she splashes like joy broke all the rules.
And when her eyes catch mine mid-play,
I see both of them,
clear as day.
She swims like stars know where she’s been,
and I breathe slow,
just take it in.

"Look and me, I'll dive like a seal"

She dives in her glasses tinted teal.

A kettle’s to care,
when words don’t land.
It hums your name
when there’s no hand.
It sings through sleep,
through snow and spark—
a morning song
in a room gone dark.

She falls asleep with a hoppy tucked tight,
book still open, lamp too bright.
I turn the page, though she won’t see—
just one more for the kid in me.
Room goes hush, the heater ticks,
I clean the cups, wipe orange stick.
And in the quiet, I pour one more—
not for me,
but the life before.
I sip, I sit, the clock don’t mind,
and neither do I.
Time’s not kind—
but it’s not cruel.
It just keeps.
Like Boe,
like dreams,
like sleep.

Every whistle
has a place it returns to.
Even if
it sings alone.

Alla barn som lider nöd,
hem, där far, där mor är död,
seglare på stormigt vatten,
vandrare i mörka natten,
käre gode Fader vår,
trösta den som sorgsen går.

A Kettle’s to Care

This is fan music celebrating our favorite video game Earthbound Mother 2 (If you could not tell).

“Welcome to Moonside. No, yes.
The time is color. The place is... sideways.
You are here. Or are you?”

I walked into town and the streetlights blinked,
One said “yes,” the next said “think.”
The air was pink, the sun was square,
Someone whispered, “You’re already there.”

Guy at the bar wore shades at night,
Said, “I’m your cousin, but only in light.”
Ordered a coffee, got a spoon and a scream,
This ain’t a city, it’s a sideways dream.

Say yes, say yes, it’s easier.
Lie to the mirror, it sees you clearer.
Paint the truth in disco tones,
Forget the world that cracked your bones.

I met a lamp that said, “Name your fear,”
I said, “The silence.” It said, “Very near.”
Signs point left, but the roads curl right,
Shadows wear name tags. I flinch from the light.

He said, “You can leave, just find the man.”
But everyone’s the man, and no one ran.
I sat on a chair that turned into a clown —
This place’s a joke, but I can’t sit down.

There’s a shop with hearts in a discount bin,
Where “yes” costs more than original sin.
I paid in teeth, got a map of lies,
It says I’m home, but the moon’s my size.

Asked a girl, “Are we real?” She smiled,
Said, “Only at night, and only mild.”
I laughed too long, the clock rewound,
This town’s a loop — no up, no ground.

Then I saw myself in a plastic suit,
Told me, “Jump. You got no roots.”
But I stood still, let the silence speak,
And in that hush, the static leaked.

Said, “Moonside isn’t real, it’s reflection skin.
A way to pretend you didn’t let them in.”
So I said no. The lights blinked twice.
The city cracked — and let in ice.

The man in the club turned, smiled slow.
“You made it through.”
I said, “No.”
He nodded. “Yes.”

Moonside fades when you name the lie.
And you just did.

(It’s okay to say no.)

Moonside Is... Yes

"Before saints had churches, and devils had horns,
there were only hills, stones, and storm-borne songs.
Mynydd Machen knew them all — and still hums their names."

Old Dai the Piper blew storms from his horn,
His pibgorn a thunder of sheep and of corn.
Megan of Mists stitched rain to her shawl,
And whispered of summers before they would fall.
Big Griff Tân stomped songs in the shale,
Drunk on the laughter that brewed in the vale.

Raise your hands to the folding sky,
Sing to the rocks where the merry men lie.
Each stone a drum, each breeze a hymn,
We’re the echo of them, the echo of them.

Little Iolo, feather-bright, quick as a lark,
Found spells in the hedges, made magic from bark.
Nanwen the Spoon, with broth thick as tales,
Mended hearts better than preachers or ales.
And Emrys, old Emrys, with stories so wild,
He could charm the frost off a mountain child.

The Stranger came climbing with apron strings wide,
Filled with stones, seeds, and a wink in his stride.
“Where devils dance, saints make their stand —
Not with swords, but with songs in their hands!”
So they gathered, the laughing, the battered, the brave,
And built from their breath what the storms could not cave.

"If you can’t outpace the devil’s might...
You out-sing him through the longest night."

Raise your hands to the folding sky,
Sing to the rocks where the merry men lie.
Each stone a drum, each breeze a hymn,
We’re the echo of them, the echo of them.

"On Mynydd Machen, the cairn still stands —
Twyn y Certhi, the mound of songs.
If you lay your ear to the stones at dusk,
You'll hear them still — singing us home."

Now when rain kisses Machen, and mist crowns the trees,
We dance with old Griff in the break of the breeze.
Nanwen hums lullabies over the moor,
And Iolo’s feathers tap at your door.
We are the choir of the hill and the glen,
The songs of the mountain, the mountain's merry men.

Raise your hands to the folding sky,
Sing to the rocks where the merry men lie.
Not in sorrow, not in stone —
But in laughter, in song, in finding our home.

"Sing loud enough, bach... and the Devil runs for cover."

Merry Men on Mynydd Machen

We believe in the power of music to reach out to others, offering solace and a sense of belonging. Our lyrics explore the complexities of life, family, philosophy, spirituality, and the myriad emotions that define our journey. Through this music, we aim to shed light on the strategies of coping, the importance of resilience, and the unwavering belief in a brighter tomorrow.

Merry Men on Mynydd Machen

Dancing salamanders

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