I wrote a prayer with surgical thread.
Each word—a scar.
Each sentence—rebuilt from silence.

There is a language made of rupture,
Where syntax is a wound held shut.
I stitched a psalm from the scraps of dialect
Left bleeding in the mouth of saints.

This is not speech—
This is scar and echo.
This is not meaning—
It is residue.

Suture my voice with thread and flame.
Bind each verb to the ribs of pain.
Syllables fracture.
The silence screams.
Teach me to speak
Without bleeding clean.

Cada palabra—una aguja.
Cada oración—una herida que canta.

If I must speak,
Let it be with torn ligaments of light.
If I must be heard,
Let the language limbo.
Let it stutter like resurrection.

Suture Language

No hay espejo sin fractura,
ni verdad sin cicatriz.
El testigo no duerme…
solo muerde la lengua.

I was the throat they stitched shut
With the thread of your omen—
Your silence hanged in the rafters
Like the scent of unburned gods.

Se arrastra la voz sin cuerpo,
clamando desde el mármol podrido.
El templo está hueco,
pero la sangre recuerda.

I saw the mouth open... but no sound came.
Only the wind. 
Only the rot. 
Only the echo of something that was never mine.

La Boca del Testigo (The Mouth of the Witness)

Bésame con la herida abierta.
Rómpeme con ternura fingida.
Este deseo no nació — se rompió.
No queda piel, solo reflejo.

I called your name in the flame—
but it answered in my voice!
Craving is a blade with no handle,
and I held it with both hands.
 
THIS IS NOT LOVE—THIS IS REMAINS.

Me arrancaste la lengua con besos rotos.
Me vestiste con fuego.
Ahora soy eco sin cuerpo,
deseo sin rostro.

Anhelo Mutilado (Mutilated Longing)

This nest was not built.
It was gathered—from teeth, from hair,
from unspoken names and splinters of breath.

They left me where the ruins sang,
Where memory coiled in dust.
I cupped my hands for the language lost—
And the nest grew from my silence.

Each fragment is a psalm.
Each scar, a seed.
From what was broken,
the shape returns.

Nest of the fragments—cradle my ruin.
Bind me in what couldn’t stay whole.
Let me be born from the shatter.
Let me rise from the echo of fall.

Recojo los trozos del grito perdido.
Tejo mi nombre con lo que dolía.
I gather the pieces of the lost scream.
I weave my name from what once hurt.

I am the fracture.
I am the binding.
I am the voice that crawled
back through the wound.

Nest of the fragments—
sing me awake.
From the edge of the dream,
I return remade.

The pieces knew the shape before I did.

Nido de los Fragmentos (Nest of the Fragments)

Dormidos en la cuna de mármol,
los inocentes dejaron su piel.
Marcas en el yeso, sangre en la leche.
No lloran — solo esperan.

I walked where their names had peeled from the stone.
The wind spoke in nursery rhymes —
and the walls hummed lullabies with no mouths.

¿Dónde están? 
¿Dónde están?
Where are they?

Bajo el polvo: juguetes rotos, uñas pequeñas.
El silencio es un velo. El velo es una tumba.

Exuvia de los Inocentes (Exuviae of the Innocents)

Nido de los Fragmentos begins with the witness and ends with the echo’s death. “Threnody for the Negative Twin” is the final grief song — not just for what was lost, but for the version of the self that didn’t survive the transformation. The silence afterward feels earned.

Threnody for the Negative Twin

The sky collapsed like parchment.
No rain, no shade—just thirst in bloom.
We carved our names into the bone of silence,
and fed the dust our prayers.

Espinas de sal,
raíces del sol muerto,
la arena me traga,
la voz se quiebra.

This is not a home—
It’s a wound with walls
Don’t drink the light—
it burns from within

Salt crystallized in the shape of wings.
We tried to fly from the famine of sky,
but the wind was made of teeth.

Salt Spines (For the Withered Sky)

They said the moon was full tonight,
But it never cast a shadow.
I followed it anyway.
I needed a god to blame.

She hung there, perfect and pale—
A mirror without a name.
Not a witness, not a warning,
Just a beacon made of absence.

Is it a god, or just gravity?
Is it a lie, or just light?
I asked the sky for silence—
It gave me shape instead.

Cry of the false moon—
Burn in reverse.
Lead me astray
With deliberate grace.
I’ll believe in the wound
If it carves me clean.

La luna no me vio.
Sólo fingió ser testigo.
Sus ojos eran espejos rotos.
Su canto era la sed del polvo.

We name the sky to make it hold us.
We call the light so we can fall toward it.
But not everything glowing is mercy.
Not every silence is permission.

Cry of the False Moon

Speak, broken vessel—
you wear the mask, but not the meaning.

I saw him in the vestibule of the void,
Lips sewn with choir wire,
Eyes turned inside to dream of fire—
The proxy saint, undone by prayer.

He speaks not words,
But hunger dressed as gospel.
Each syllable—a wound.
Each silence—a blade.

Proxy speak
Lie in me
With tongue of rust
Baptize my grief
Proxy speak
Bind my name
With fractured psalms
I die the same

They fed him scripts of ash and glass,
A sermon shaped from burning breath.
He bled the rite in every tongue—
And none of them forgave.

El santo sin nombre nos llama,
pero su voz ya no es suya.
Nos guía hacia la ruina disfrazada de revelación.

I kissed the altar of his throat.
The words dissolved before they left.
A prophet built of failure,
A mouth that swallowed heaven whole.

Mouth of the Proxy Saint

Los ojos se cerraron… pero siguieron viendo.
Un jardín de vidrio. Un sol de mármol.
Silencio que canta, tumba que florece.

In the tomb of light, I saw her face.
Not made of flesh—but of memory.
Each scar a window. Each breath a wound.

Esto no es muerte
Esto no es muerte 
Es la luz que quema sin calor.
This is not death
This is not death
It’s the light that burns without heat.

Déjame dormir… en el resplandor de lo que se fue.
Let me sleep… in the glow of what was lost.

Nocturno en el Sepulcro de Luz (Nocturne in the Tomb of Light)

Last night, a dagger slept beneath my tongue.
It whispered prophecy— or maybe it was memory.

The blade dreamt of me.
Called me by names I buried.
Each edge a phrase I once believed,
Now rusted in the shape of confession.

In dreams, the dagger speaks.
It tells the truth in symbols
and lies in perfect grammar.

Let the blade speak.
Let the metal tongue move.
If it cuts,
then let it carve meaning.
If it lies,
then let it sound holy.

I pulled it from the mouth of sleep,
Still warm with secrets.
It sang in bloodless dialect—
A language born to never wake.

Habla, cuchillo sagrado.
Rómpeme con lo que sabes.
Hazme profeta del sueño roto.

Speak, dagger—
Unseal the silence.
Cut my tongue into gospel.
Let my ruin become your sermon.

And when I woke,
the dagger was gone.
But my mouth remembered
every word it never said.

The Dagger that Speaks in Dreams

Mastica la hoja del sueño.
Bebe el jugo del eclipse.
Déjame olvidar el nombre…
el rostro… el fuego… la promesa.

It tasted like earth, like rot, like sleep.
It curled behind my teeth—
and peeled the mirrors from my skull.

YOU PROMISED I WOULDN’T REMEMBER—
YOU LIED IN FLOWERS!
THE HERB DOES NOT FORGIVE!

Olvida… olvida… olvídate de mí.
Olvida el fuego. Olvida el eco.

Yerba del Olvido (Herb of Forgetting)

The tongue forgot its mother.
The words grew thorns.
I dreamed of speaking clean—
but the vowels came bleeding.

Esta lengua mía—
con costras de plegaria seca.
No canta.
No reza.
Solo muerde en silencio.

Say it wrong, say it sharp
Let the blood rewrite the grammar
Mouth of ash, Jaw of glass
Speak me dead and make it matter

Syntax in collapse—
The mouth stutters fire.
An altar in the gums,
Bricks made of teeth,
A cathedral where no vowel fits.

Me enseñaron a callar con estilo.
Me pidieron que sangrara en métrica.

Lengua en ruinas—
no queda nombre.
Lengua en ruinas—
no queda cuerpo.

Lengua en Ruinas (Tongue in Ruins)

Once, every voice reached heaven.
Now we echo without aim.
We build towers from misunderstanding.
And worship the silence left behind.

Words fracture mid-birth.
Tongues swell with memory they can’t utter.
I name myself in languages
that no longer mean.

Fragmentos — Sprechen — Lengua rota — Susurrus — Towerfall

Silent Babel
cradle of noise.
I climbed the throat of God
and found only dust.

Las voces sangraron sin fin.
Cada palabra, una ruina más.
The tongue is a failed spell.
But I speak it anyway.

Silent Babel
aquí termina el eco.
Aquí dejo mi voz.

Silent Babel

Hazme ceniza,
hazme sombra.
Borra mi nombre con sal.
Bajo la lengua — otra boca.

There’s a mirror in my chest,
And every time I breathe it cracks!
I watched my face dissolve in flame—
But the scream stayed whole.

¿Quién dejó abierta la puerta del sueño?
¿Quién trajo al lobo a la cuna?
Esta piel no es mía.
Esta voz… no responde.

Ceniza del Miedo (Ash of Fear)

They pulled the thorns from my throat,
One by one—
But I learned to sing without them.
Now I bloom in barbed phrases.

The voice returned, but it wasn’t mine.
It spoke in vowels sharpened by ruin.
Every word: a needle.
Every silence: a scream unformed.

¡No callaré!
¡La herida canta en mí!
¡El eco tiene garras!

Speak through the thorn—
Let blood be the scripture.
Let pain be the tongue
That finally tells the truth.

I stitched my voice from shrapnel.
I taught the silence to beg.
I do not speak.
I rupture.

Espinas de la voz—
florezco en ruina.
Grito con los huesos
que el lenguaje dejó.

Espinas de la Voz (Thorns of the Voice)

They built the house without doors.
Said the saints had no need for exit.
Only a mouth to let the fever in.

We drink from the hands of statues,
cracked and clean from lack of touch.
Their eyes are painted closed—
but they still watch the dusk.

¿Dónde están los gritos?
¿Dónde los rezos que olvidamos?
La arena cubre los nombres.
Pero el eco no se va.

This house has no gods.
Only idols with hollow lungs.
They sing when the wind comes through.
They sing in our sleep.

Sleep under their bones.
Dream in their dust.
You are part of the altar now.

House of the Hollow Saints

Orașul Arde

I make albums for fictional bands with assistance of AI tools.

Melodii care îmbină sunete atmosferice, emoții puternice și povești nerostite.

New tracks tagged #Progressive Psychedelic Rock