Santa BUŠS : 'Mēness upes gaismas tuksnešu pusvārdos' 
for 4 musicians - for saxophone (alto), kokle (concert and bass), percussion (books, typewriter, pencils, cymbals, paper, etc.) and Moon Modular 5U Synthesizer
(2025) 
Trio Tresensus (Aigars Raumanis, Līga Griķe, Uģis Upenieks) and Reinis Rabenau
(live recording : 07.05.2025. : Riga Latvian Society House, Latvia)

This piece is inspired by the poetry of Veronika Strēlerte, drawing its title from a fusion of her six poetry  collections - Simple Words, Raindrop, Moon River, Deserts of Light, Years of Grace, and In Half-Words. Each collection carries its own imagery and tone, yet together they form an emotional and thematic continuum. The music mirrors this by unfolding in six episodes, each reflecting the essence of one collection, while gradually flowing into one another - like layers of meaning revealed over time. 
The musical language is shaped by the poetic qualities I find most striking in Strēlerte: intense imagery, delicate intimacy, and a lyrical abstraction that balances clarity with mystery. Instrumental parts - including books and writing tools as sound sources - reflect on writing itself as both action and necessity in her life.
The modular synthesizer part plays a central role. Its unpredictable, luminous, and often otherworldly voice captures something of the moonlight, wind, and half-said thoughts that ripple through Strēlerte’s work. At the heart of the piece are also the three unique musicians of Trio Tresensus - their contrasting personalities, voices, and instruments come together like a finely woven fabric of nuance and detail. 
Composed in Gotland, where Strēlerte herself once landed as a refugee, the work also echoes her journey and presence in this place - both fragile and powerful.

Santa BUŠS : 'Mēness upes gaismas tuksnešu pusvārdos'

The picture of rock and roll drawn by a five year old with a box of old crayons.

afraid of ghosts

take it easy

goblin country

la cueva

estabas tu

teddy bear

a dirty word

rounders

swing swing,
 sing sing,
 all about the coming spring.
 thawing melting snow and bloom,
 in our little afternoon.
 Cup of hearts,
 you gently fill,
 dear brigthest daffodil.

 Had I a chart,
 for this now,
 our time apart.
 I'd plot a line from,
 where you are to my heart.
 I would start walking,
 walking the way home.
 Familiar landmarks of all,
 we have known.
 Clickity heels and golden bricks,
 no quick-fix on this narrow road,
 no profecies has been foretold,
 Just step by step on these squares of gold.
Oh but whom do I find a head my weary boots,
 a ragedy saint in cahoots,
 join me in a out tiny toots.
 Seems this one has lost his heart,
 there only remaining broken parts.
come with me david,
 take up a leek like a sword,
 let us keep marching toward,
 towards across the hill and vale.
 across wind and gale.

 away away we must,
 lonely little wanderlust,
 Come away, O human child!
 To the waters and the wild,
 With a saint, hand in hand,
 For the world's more full of weeping,
 than you can understand.

 Further down this yellow lane,
 through Risca mist and rain,
 I hear a flock of tangled thoughts,
 like swallows in a brain.
 Perched upon a fence of wire,
 little Coco made of hay,
 says, “My head’s a house with broken doors,
 and guests that will not go away.”
He sees colours dripping off the sky,
 voices blooming in the coal-tip shade,
 pages of a life half-scribed,
 ink that runs but won’t quite fade.
 “Friend,” I say, “your spinning mind
 is still a field where seeds can fall.
 Walk with us and lend your straw,
 we’ll share the weight of it all.”
So shoulder to shoulder, three a-breast,
 through the hedgerow’s whispered talk,
 we stitch the fraying seams of sense
 with every mile we walk.

 Heart lost, mind crossed,
 boots muddy with the cost,
 still we follow where the road believes,
 through every crack the light still weaves.

 So raise, raise what we saved,
 for the wounded and the brave,
 Raise your cup to what survived,
the gold that learned to breathe.
 From rusted tin and tattered straw,
 to a lion who forgot his roar,
 we’ll drink to every trembling hand
 that still refuses to leave.

 On the ridge where coal smoke thins,
 and valleys fold like violin strings,
 there stands Bran, a shrinking giant,
 in a coat that used to fit his wings.
 Pint glass shaking in his paw,
 eyes fixed on his weathered shoes,
 he says, “In this small and foreign land,
 I’m always scared of what I’ll lose.”
Once he strode from peak to peak,
 dragon clouds beneath his feet,
 now he’s staring at the pub-room floor,
 dodging every stranger’s seat.
 So I slip a daffodil in his cuff,
 a tiny torch for his belief,
 say, “No one measures height in here,
 we just measure shared relief.”

 Heart patched, mind matched,
 courage gently re-attached,
 round this battered oaken table,
 we’re as tall as we are able.

 So raise, raise what we’ve known,
 for the hills that shaped our bones,
 raise your cup to what survived,
the gold that learned to breathe.
 From Cardiff Bay to Risca rain,
 to every cracked and chiming vein,
 we’ll drink to every storm we rode
 and every night we grieved.

 Green glass letters on the door,
 emerald glow across the floor,
 brush on snare and old jazz chord,
 no great and powerful wizard,
 just a kind and tired Lord
 of the barstools, pulling pints,
 wiping tears with Friday nights.
Saint David laughs, his tin ribs ring,
 Coco hums a crooked swing,
 Bran leans back, his shoulders wide,
 finding space for his old pride.
 No decree and no grand spell,
 just friends who’ve walked each other’s hell,
 and in the clatter, low and warm,
 we learn the shape of being re-born.

 Oh, raise, raise what we’ve kept,
 all the times we almost wept,
 Raise your cup to what survived,
the gold that learned to breathe.
 To every mind that lost its map,
 every heart held shut with strap,
 we’ll drink until the band plays soft,
 and lay our burdens underneath.

veig

ale2k, flightless bird hurtling towards prehistory

Support our mission to raise awareness around child loss through music, stories, and shared hope. Every contribution helps us honour the memory of our children and support others walking this path.

santa.buss@gmail.com

Santa BUŠS is a Latvian composer especially interested in detailed pre-compositional process and working with extra-musical ideas (found in other art forms, physiology, history, mythology, nature, architecture, medicine, sports, philosophy, etc.). 

Though her main focus and form of expression has been linked with instrumental music, lately she has discovered a deep interest in the voice and its possibilities, as well as being keen to expand her approach towards sound, composition and exploring different forms of collaboration. 
This also includes exploring territories between conventional and unconventional notation and performance techniques, as well as experimenting between the boundaries of music, theatre and opera, often focusing on the physical manipulation of instruments and the presence of musicians as a source of drama. 

She has studied both composition and musicology at the Latvian Academy of Music and Hamburg University of Music and Theatre. 

Her works have been performed throughout Europe, in North America and Asia.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UgBltNTuhvU

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