Cwtsh o’Clock

Threadbare hymn

The road after the rain

Alun the Alchemist

How to Be Small in a Big World

Into the Fires of Battle. Unto the Anvil of war, brothers.

Ad Incudem - Salamanders Forge/Battle Hymn (Inspired By Warhammer 40000)

Airey mouse, airey mouse fly over my head
And you shall have a crust of bread
And when I brew, or when I bake,
You shall have a piece of my wedding cake.

Early bitten,
breakfast smitten,
You awake,
Stretching in bed like a homespun kitten.
Oh aye, there she is,
There is my sweet little miss.
Come come, sun’s all up,
Tide is in, so let’s begin.


“Five more minutes, Tad…”

“Oh aye, but only five more.
Better get going to see what,
What the day has in store”

Sweet so sweet,
My feet knows this street.
Knows the brine and salt,
Set on my skin,
The sea knows,
English-oak hair in the wind.

And I know,
Know this little place is ours.
Pesky picky pastry sweet,
Sweet-sour little heartbeat.

I think, you grow here
Little daffodil dear.
By the seals’ slow call,
A saltflower after all.

Lovely little tiny tousled head,
Breakfast served,
Of course in bed.
Aye, this our getaway
By the cove and Willy’s cave.
Two explorers bold and brave.

Stumble into the morning breeze,
Sun high on the tide and seas.
Let us roam now wild and free.

Past the old Watch House,
By the shore this little mouse.
She runs and skips,
Spray of salt on her lips.

“Tad, tad!
Look, that house is made of shells!”

“Hehe, aye little star.
Shall we go inside?”

Narrow lanes in a ribbon of blue,
Doorframes chipped to a kinder hue,
Fish-baskets dreaming by splintered beams,
Sun stitching gold through the harbour seams.
You point at a cat in a painted frame,
Give every gull a proper name,
Count boat ropes, one to ten,
Lose your place and start again.
Baker’s bell and a saffron bun,
Jam-sticky grin in the Cornish sun,
Cream like clouds on a granite scone,
You hum a tune I’ve always known.
Salt on your lashes, light in your laugh,
Sea writes our names in a foamy graph,
And even when the letters go,
The love stays bright below.

Sweet so sweet,
These feet know this street.
Know the brine and the lift,
Of a harbour shift,
Skiff-oars knocking a timbered rhyme,
Ticking the pulse of Polperro time.

And I know,
Know this little place is ours.
Lemon-kissed and pastry-pressed,
Tiny drum of a happy chest.
You bloom where the brine would drown,
Little daffodil in a tidal town,
By the seals’ slow call,
A saltflower after all.

Salt on the brow, salt on the bread,
Salt keeps the tears we thought we shed.
Sea-sweat mingles with the day’s warm light,
Turns every scrape into pearl and white.
What the wave takes, it leaves in kind,
A softer shore, a gentler mind.
Love grows roots in the stony brine,
Breaks through chalk with a quiet spine.

“Tad… listen. The sea is singing.”

Crab lines coiled in a pail of sky,
You squint one eye and you dare them try,
Pebbles pocketed, green, then grey,
We’ll count them home at the end of day.
Cliff-path thyme in a windy prayer,
Gorse sparks yellow in the salted air,
Hand in my hand at the harbour rail,
Watching a gig boat set her sail.
You say, “Tad, when the water goes,
Does it carry our footprints on its toes?”
I say, “Aye, but it keeps, you see,
The little you, safe here with me.”
For here where the world feels small and wide,
You flower straight through the turning tide;
And every tear I couldn’t hide
Turned sweet as kelp in the evening glide.

Sweet so sweet,
My feet knows this street.
Knows the brine and the bite,
And the soft-gold light,
Knows the song in the rigging’s twist,
Copper on the evening mist.

And I know,
Know this little place is ours
Shell-bright laughter, flour-dust hours.
You grew in salt, you grew in sun,
Two hearts knotted and tied as one.
By the seals’ slow call and the harbour wall,
You bloom, you bloom
A saltflower after all.

Sleepy mouse in a tide-rock bed,
Sea hums low while the day turns red.
“Five more minutes?”, aye, take ten.
Tomorrow we’ll roam these lanes again.

saltflower

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

sweet heart,
sweet part,
lend me your wind,
lend me you chart.

I've got six breaths,
still full of steam.
I've been far away,
long since seen.

I'm full of anticipation,
it's a strange odd sensation.
mean maybe a wee bit mad,
still at odds with the world me lad.

aye, who's to say this ain't okay.
it ain't goodbye,
just another horizon,
under a different sky.

sweet little heart I don't carry the same,
sweetheart didn't bury your name.

sour old sot,
something's strange is afoot.
some thing settle and clear,
right here,
right here.

think I tossed and turned,
me head til I learned.
learned I'm ain't gonna find you there.

there around the corner of my eye,
stood all small and shy.

why, why.
tell me why.

tell me friend,
can we not pretend.
can we fend,
not only for our little self.
lay your sorrows not on this shelf.

let's see,
what we.
can do together.

sweet little heart I don't carry in kind,
sweetheart never I'll mind.

sour old sot,
something's strange is afoot.
some thing settle and clear,
right there,
right there.

tell me then,
little lovely light.
do you prefer I say goodnight.

tell me cariad,
my sweet heart.
how could I start.
over again.

sweet  heart

A simple upload because I wanted it on here for personal use, feel free to add to playlists and such.

Salamanders by Stringstorm

Welcome to Vox Imperialis - a branch of the Adeptus Ministrorum dedicated to the archiving of High Gothic hymns from the 41st millennium and ETTS meme energy ("apocrifa" songs).

Inspired by the works of Endless Taverns and Colm R. McGuinness mostly. 

Created with only Mechanicus-blessed machine spirits: 
- Claude (lyrics refinment)
- Producer.ai (vocals/instruments)
- Audacity (manual mixing/SFX)
- Gemini + GIMP (artwork).

Apologies to *real* creators for the AI usage, this is a learning phase. I'm working on gradually taking them out of the equation with time.

The Emperor protects. Ave Omnissiah. Ave Deus Mechanicus.

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.

Tonk.

https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/T28_Super_Heavy_Tank

New tracks tagged #salamanders