The sun peeks soft through the Stockholm air,
The morning hums, the day feels rare.
She stirs in bed, her laughter breaks,
The promise of midsummer wakes.

"Up you get, my little star,
Today we’ll dance beneath skies afar."

"Papa, will it be like the stories you tell?
With flowers, music, and that maypole spell?"


Through cobbled streets, the car winds slow,
Past waters wide where sailboats glow.
They drive to Sigtuna, a town so quaint,
Where summer’s canvas the flowers paint.


"Do you see the flags, so blue and bright?"

"They’re dancing too in the midsummer light!"
"Will we make a crown, like the girls all wear?"
"We will, my love, with flowers fair."


A Midsummer’s dream, the day feels true,
With skies of gold and flowers of blue.
The maypole stands, the world aglow,
A circle of joy where love will grow.


In the meadow’s bloom, she kneels so low,
Her tiny hands make her crown to show.
Daisies and clover, a splash of green,
A crown fit for a midsummer queen.


"What’s your favorite flower, my little sun?"

"The bluebells, Papa, they’re just like fun!"
"Will it stay on while I skip and sing?"
"It’ll stay, my love—it’s held by spring."


The fiddles play as the maypole turns,
The bonfire crackles, its golden burns.
She skips and twirls, her crown held tight,
Her laughter soaring through midsummer’s light.


"Hop, hop, hop! Let’s dance, my dear,
The songs of summer drawing near!"

"Papa, what’s this word I hear them sing?"
"It means ‘together’—it’s everything."


A Midsummer’s dream, the night runs slow,
With stars that linger and moonlight’s glow.
The maypole turns, the fire alights,
A bond of love through endless nights.


As the music fades, the stars shine through,
The lake reflects the evening’s hue.
Her voice grows soft, her eyes grow wide,
"Papa, tell me more of our Swedish side."

"Your mother danced here, long ago,
With flowers bright and a heart aglow.
This place is hers, it’s yours to keep,
A midsummer bond that runs so deep."


The lake sits still as the evening falls,
The songs drift softly through forest halls.
She holds her crown as she rests her head,
Her heart still dancing, though words unsaid.


"Will we do this again next year, Papa?"

"Always, my love, it’s who we are."


Through Stockholm’s streets, the night turns cool,
The city hums like a gentle jewel.
Her flower crown rests on her lap,
A little queen in her evening nap.


"She’s my midsummer dream, my light, my guide,
A piece of the world where our hearts reside."


A Midsummer’s dream, the world feels near,
With love that lingers year by year.
The maypole turns, the stars align,
A timeless bond, forever mine.


The cabin waits, the lights burn low,
Her tiny hand still clings to glow.
The midsummer crown now rests aside,
But its magic lives where hearts abide.

"A Midsummer’s dream, my little sun,
Forever shining, our lives as one."

A Midsummer’s Dream

“Rain again,” you said, with your hood half-wrung
Tiima stomped puddles and shouted, “I won!”
Mam muttered “cachu hwch,” still under her breath
Laughing while dodging the soggy steps

The café was steamed like a dragon in sleep
The bell on the door gave a chirp and a beep
We peeled off our layers, wet sleeves and all
Sat by the radiator, warm, small, and tall

Proudly proclaiming, “This is now my café!”
You bowed with a grin, “Aye, Lead the way.”
And Mam just smiled, that cardigan queen
Her eyes full of stories twinkle and beam

“Can I have a whole cake?” Tiima says with glee
“Ask in Swedish,” and then we'll see
“Tack sa... muggakaka!” she beamed with pride
“Close enough,” you said, with a wink on the side

I asked for teisen, you got bara brith
Mam went no sugar, a long-standing myth
“You’ve got a type,” I said. “It’s tea and control.”
“It’s not my fault consistency’s soul.”

Tiima fed crumbs to the café dog’s feet
Named it Owain and offered her a seat
“He can live here now,” she declared with glee
“Under the table, and snack tax is free.”

“Aye, our second date was here,” Mam said, half-turned
“He panicked and left with his brownie unearned.”
“The pressure was high!” I said with a shrug
“You ordered in Welsh. I just wanted a hug.”

The light hit your lashes, the spoon caught the steam
Tiima drew hearts on her napkin with cream
Her list of favourites, in jam and in curls:

This tea
Mam’s voice
Toasty squirrels

I reached for your hand and you didn’t pull
Just tapped once slow, like a thought made full
Mam smiled soft, stirred her tea in threes,
“Dw i’n hoffi hyn.” Just fika, just peace

The chairs scraped slow as the sky went grey
The café closed gently, like folding the day
Mam wrapped the scarf with a twist and a tuck
“To trap the mischief,” she said with luck

We paid with coins and a thank you grin
Took one last breath, and then stepped in.
In to the outside, foggy and chill
Sleeping the giant, blessed and still, 
cozy and waiting under the hill

The rain had quit, but the world stayed hushed
“Same time next storm?” I asked, slightly flushed
You smiled, and Mam just hummed in key,
A sweet little chord: our fika for three

Fika for Three

The alarm cuts sharp through the fog of dreams,
Another day, or so it seems.
Their plastic smiles fade as I’m out the door,
The world feels heavy, life and lore.

The cobbled streets feel cold, alive,
In the park cross the line where time divides.
The meridian whispers its silent plea,
“Past and present are tied to me.”
A ship’s shadow stretches, its mast held high,
The gray, the day, the Thameses sigh.

They say, “Let go, it’s in the past,”
But shadows cling, they’re built to last.
Every step, they’re holding tight,
A quintessence in the light.
I can’t escape, though I try,
But if I told you, it'd be a lie.

The gates swing wide, the scene unfolds,
Bullies laugh, their voices bold.
Princesses pose with practiced grace,
Their glances sharp, says "know your place".
The weight of their words builds like a storm,
A stage where I can't fit the form.

Behind me, a voice, “Let’s leave today,
This dull world isn’t where we’ll stay.”
Her hand grabs mine, the gates fall behind,
We run like thieves through space and time.
The city hums as we find our stride,
The tunnel echoes, the river’s tide.

She says, “Every turn’s a chance to dream,
Not every shadow’s as dark as it seems.”

They say, “Let go, it’s in the past,”
But shadows cling, they’re built to last.
Each step now feels a little light,
The quintessence turns to flight.
Her voice sparks dreams, a guiding cry,
The echoes shift to “Why not try?”

Off the deck into the street, 
Through plumstead station, feet by feet
We cross the river, the air feels wide,
Her laughter ripples with the changing tide.
A market appears with its lively stalls,
Stories and trinkets tucked in its walls.
“Look at this,” she says with a grin,
“A map for lost wanderers, let’s begin.”

The streets unfold, like stories untold,
She says, “Even broken things can be bold.
Not all shadows are here to fight;
Some just dance in the fading light.”

We stumble on a garden, forgotten and still,
The air hums soft, the world grows still.
She points to a flower, magnolias bent but bright,
“Even the weary can seek the light.”
Her words plant seeds, a gentle flame,
In this quiet magic, we're the same.

They say, “Let go, it’s in the past,”
But shadows cling, they’re built to last.
Now each step feels less like fright,
The quintessence turns to light.
Her voice still echoes, “Give it a try,”
The shadows fade; I learn to fly.

The gates will swing wide again someday,
But her voice will guide me along the way.

Quintessence

The train hums low; the skyline bends,
Each tower fades, where the river ends.
The glass reflects a face I know,
But the edges blur where the fractures show.

"Do they see me, the me that’s real?
Or just the one I let them feel?"

"They see the surface, polished bright,
But miss the cracks beneath the light."

The house feels smaller than it did before,
The walls too clean, the air unsure.
They greet with smiles, polite and brief,
Their words a bandage, not relief.

"Am I the daughter they think they raised?
Or just the ghost of their well-worn praise?"

"You look tired, love, are you eating well?"

"It’s not food that keeps me in this shell."

Fractal lines, a mirrored sea,
Each piece reflects what they can’t see.
Infinite shapes in endless streams,
A tangled self, a lattice of dreams.

The tea turns cold, the clock ticks slow,
She texts a thought she can’t let show:
"It’s quiet here, but not in me."
He replies, "You’re safe. Just breathe."

"If it gets too loud, you know I’m near,
Every piece of you is welcome here."

"Does he mean it, the all of me?
Even the parts they’ll never see?"

Fractal lines, a shape unfolds,
A fragile maze where love takes hold.
Each twist, each turn, a part of me,
A shattered whole they’ll never see.

She steps outside; the streets run wide,
The river churns with the evening tide.
Her breath slows down; the lights grow dim,
She finds herself thinking of him.

"Could I be seen, and not retreat?
Could I be loved, and feel complete?"
The fractal spins, its beauty clear,
A map of pain and love and fear.

The train hums back through the evening gray,
She texts again, "I’m on my way."
His reply: "Come home, my star,
Every piece of you is who you are."

The city fades, the skyline bends,
Each shadow breaks, but it mends, it mends.
The fractal turns, its beauty wide,
A world of selves she won’t let hide.

Fractal lines, a mirrored sky,
Each shard reflects the reasons why.
Infinite shapes in endless streams,
A tangled self that dares to dream.

The house glows warm as she steps inside,
The pieces shift, but they coincide.
A text reads softly, "You’ve made it through,"
Each fractal line, a path to you.

Fractal

The waves roll in, the shore is still,
A bell faintly calls from the distant hill.
A land once bright, now lost below,
Where echoes of love still softly glow.

The sea took you where I can’t tread,
A place unseen, where whispers are led.
My star, my light, how do I stay,
When the tides pull hard and steal the day?

Under the waves of Lyonesse,
Your voice, it lingers, a faint caress.
Clychau trist* call through the deep,
Where love is bound, but pain does seep.

I see your face in Tima’s* eyes,
The same bright spark that never dies.
But how to weave your story near,
When the loom of grief feels tangled here?

Under the waves of Lyonesse,
Your voice, it lingers, a faint caress.
Clychau trist call through the deep,
Where love is bound, but pain does seep.

Her laugh, her step, her tender hand,
They tether me to this shifting sand.
The threads of life I must repair,
To hold her close, though you’re not there.

Under the waves of Lyonesse,
Your voice, it lingers, a faint caress.
Clychau trist call through the deep,
Where love is bound, but pain does seep.

The bell tolls low, yet the sound grows bright,
A guide through the storm, a steadfast light.
My star, my love, I feel you near,
In her small hands, in each falling tear.

The waters calm, the horizon gleams,
A thread of gold through fractured dreams.
Though Lyonesse is lost to view,
The love we wove will still shine true.

Under the waves of Lyonesse,
Your voice, it lingers, a faint caress.
Clychau trist call through the deep,
Where love is bound, but hope must leap.

So I will walk this shore once more,
With her small steps, we’ll both explore.
The bell still rings, its tune is clear,
A song of love, forever near.

Through the waves of Lyonesse,
The tides may pull, but I confess,
Your light still shines, a guide to see,
The love that binds eternity.

Lionesse of Lyonesse

Mam says I packed too many jumpers again,
Ma just laughs, says, “Well, that’s our man.”
Tima’s got mud up her knees by ten,
Eira’s got stickers on the frying pan.

The cabin creaks when the front door swings,
The kettle’s christened “Llewelyn the Hot.”
I burn the pasta, they all still sing,
We light a candle in a camping pot.

There’s a cricket stuck in the kettle box,
Mam says it’s luck, or possibly rot.
Ma says “Let’s just survive the night,”
Tima says “What if there’s foxes that bite?”

Foxes in the garden, don’t make a sound
Let the wind and the dark do the talking now
They leave no tracks, just a shimmered bend
Some songs you sing without knowing when

We sit outside with our socks mismatched,
Thermos tea and a sky that cracked.
Eira sees stars, Tima sees smoke,
I swear I saw the moon wear a cloak.

“Tell us a story,” one of them pleads,
Mam pulls her sleeves and begins to weave:
“There’s a fox that walks where the starlight breaks,
And he only appears when the whole world aches.”

Tima goes still. Eira’s eyes go wide.
“Do they sing?” she asks. “Or just hide?”
“Some sing,” says Mam. “But only slow.
Only for those who’ll never let go.”

Foxes in the garden, slow your breath
Hear the song in the nettle’s depth
They don’t wear shoes, they don’t leave names
They pass like dreams, and play no games

Later on, when the girls are down,
Ma’s reading, Mam’s curled in a sleepy frown.
I step out, just for air,
And the garden hums like a whispered prayer.

Two shadows flicker through lavender stems,
Bronze and bone and silent hems.
No sound, no fear, just hush and thread,
Their eyes catch mine, and nothing’s said.

I don’t call Mam. I don’t blink twice.
Some wonders don’t survive advice.
I let them pass like a rolling tide,
Just lucky I was standing outside.

Foxes in the garden, gone with dawn
But I still hear them in the yawn
Of the floorboard creak and kettle hum,
Some magic doesn’t need to come.

Foxes in the garden

"You alright?"
I rise from the chair, the smell of vinegar thick,
Two pensioners still arguing over which rugby kit was best in ’86.
Crosskeys late lunch, autumn dark,
I zip my coat, step out — parked by the door:
her pink wellies in my mind like punctuation marks.
Time to get her. Daycare’s up the hill. Rain again.

[sung in welsh] Prynnhawn da, they call as I step inside,
She’s halfway through a drawing, wild eyes wide.
Jacket soaked, cheeks red, breath full of speed —
“Tad!” she yells, “I built a dragon made of leaves!”

I grab her hoodie from the warming rack,
Pull it over her head, damp curls pushed back.
Shoulder ride. Mud path. One glove off.
She sings about pancakes, the rain, and moss.

Canal to Crosskeys — the puddles all shine,
Her humming’s a metronome to walking time.
We pass the old stone bridge, Pont-y-waun,
A tourist bus rolls past like it don’t belong.

Big and blue like a summer’s yawn,
Tima points and goes “That bus is blue sky!”
I grin: “Oh little star, if you only knew why…”

Skyblue bus, rolling slow,
Through puddle light and afternoon glow.
It don’t stop for roads or clocks —
It’s always moving, never knocks.
You blink, it’s gone —
But it saw you too.
And someday soon, it’ll ride with you.

The kettle hums. We’re home. Socks dry.
Tima curls like a comma in the crook of my thigh.
Mam’s out late, the wind’s grown chill,
The fire makes shadows dance on the windowsill.

I read her “Songs and Sayings” again —
Gwent and Glyndŵr, long-bearded men.
She yawns, a slow stretch, eyes full of moons,
I hum some lines, the old lull tunes.

And somewhere between the hearth and the book,
My eyes go soft, and the room gets shook
By nothing but quiet. My head leans low.
And sleep starts sowing what dreams will grow…

I hear a trumpet, soft and near,
From a box room I haven’t seen in years.
Rain on glass. Wood smoke air.
A blue light on the backyard stair…

Skyblue bus, with a number none,
Stops in the rain where the dream begun.
I hear my dad through the trumpet reed,
A tune from memory, stitched in need.
The past don’t knock — it finds its way
And the bus just hums like it knows the way.

I’m twelve again, staring out the door,
Wet hill rising past the cellar floor.
“En buss, himmel blå,” I whisper dumb —
It’s real. It stops. It hums.

A boy steps out, same freckled face.
“Come on then,” he says, “we’ve got time to waste.”
And we ride — over mountains, between each year,
Past vittra fields and twilight deer.

Trolls in scarves, giants in suits,
A goat on the roof playing silver flutes.
The bus don’t care for gravity's truth —
Just carries what's lost and waiting for proof.

Skyblue bus, through dream and dust,
Through every echo we forgot to trust.
It rolls through grief, it floats on song,
It don’t stay long — but it pulls you strong.
The door slides wide, and a whisper breaks:
“She’s calling, Tad — it’s time to wake.”

My eyes open slow, the hearth still red,
Tima asleep with her hand on my head.
Her breath is steady, a rhythm sweet —
Her foot still muddy, her sock half-creased.

She stirs. “Blue,” she murmurs low,
Then tucks herself into the blanket’s glow.
I smile. I don’t say a thing.
But I hear a bus bell in the distance ring.

Some things don’t fade — they just reroute,
Through time, through blood, through every doubt.
We ride, we sleep, we ache, we miss —
But we pass it on in a look, a kiss.

Skyblue wheels don’t rust or turn —
They hum in silence, they wait, they learn.

She says “blue” again, barely awake.
I brush her hair back, my voice low:
“That’s right, cariad.
The sky came back to take you home.”

Blåhilma Bussen (The Skyblue Bus)

The air hums low with whispers of thought,
A canvas stretched, her brushlines caught.
The café buzzes, but she’s somewhere far,
Lost in a world where symbols are stars.

"What stories linger in the curve of her hand?
What secrets unfold in the lines she’s planned?"

Her brush moves slow, like a dancer’s grace,
Tracing a serpent with a human face.
The sun and moon, a union bold,
Bound by chains of silver and gold.

"What does it mean, the dragon’s tongue?
The wheel that turns where the stars are hung?"

"It’s the circle of time, the world own game,
The search for truth, for a hidden flame."

Through the twelve gates, where the riddles gleam,
A sacred path, a golden dream.
Lead to silver, silver to gold,
The right and perfect meanes unfold.

The colors shift as the story grows,
A phoenix rises where the poppy blows.
She tilts her head, the brush held tight,
"It’s the ashes reborn in the fire’s light."

"And what of the stone, the one they seek?
Does it live in this scroll, in words they speak?"

"The stone’s not found in the gold they crave,
It’s the heart that loves, the soul that’s brave."

Through the twelve gates, where the symbols play,
A sacred science to light the way.
Lead to silver, silver to gold,
The right and perfectest meanes retold.

Her eyes alight with the fire she stokes,
A story lives in the art she evokes.
The serpent coils where the eagle flies,
An ouroboros of infinite ties.

"She paints a world where the broken mend,
A map of hope, where circles end."

"Are you lost in thought, or lost in me?
The symbols speak if you choose to see."

The dragon breathes, the phoenix sings,
The cycle turns where the fire clings.
"We’re all brave, in our own way,
Turning grief to light, to find the day."

"And you, the artist, the keeper of dreams,
Show me the truth in these gilded streams."

She hands him the brush, his fingers still,
"Add your mark, wherever you will."
He draws a line, where the rivers meet,
A quiet echo, soft and sweet.

"You’ve gilded the stream with a silver gleam,
Now it’s part of our daring dream."

"Together we build what the world can’t see,
A map of hope, a legacy."

Through the twelve gates, where the secrets hide,
A sacred path where love abides.
Lead to silver, silver to gold,
The right and perfectest meanes unfold.

The brush lays down, the colors blend,
The story told, yet it won’t end.
In every mark, a piece of flame,
The right and perfectest meanes remain.

The Right and Perfectest Meanes

Three hearts gather, where the moon dips low,
By the brambles and the bloom, where wild winds blow.
It’s been a year, but it cuts the same,
Her scent in the smoke, still whispers our names.

Lil sis draws stars in the dirt with a stick,
Still thinks she can catch 'em, quick as a flick.
Middle bro hums with a flask in hand,
Eyes on the woods like he understands.
Big sis keeps calm, got her boots unlaced,
Reads the sky like she’s readin’ fate.

Campfire crackles, old tunes creep in,
Jazz from the rocks, like a club within.
Eyes glow red in the underbrush tight,
But they nod to the beat, not lookin’ to bite.
We’re halfway in sleep, halfway in spell,
And the salamanders dance like they know us well.

Dancing salamanders, tails alight,
Like they been rehearsin' all of night.
Underneath stars in a cavern so wide,
Mum’s lullaby rides the tide.
Flicker and spin, embers sway,
Guidin’ us home, in a sideways way.

Tunnel of moss, and roots that hum,
Bro says “You hear that?” I say “We come.”
A glint through the bramble, neon gold,
A door in the dark like stories told.
Inside, it's swingin’, trolls on bass,
Naiads pour pints with a wink and grace.

“Darlin’, don’t forget the sound... it’ll lead you when I’m not around.”

Middle bro spins with a drink held high,
Lil sis twirls like she could touch sky.
Big sis leans in, hums the refrain,
I close my eyes, she's here again.
Mum’s in the horns, she’s in the beat,
In the snare snap, the rhythm's heat.

Dancing salamanders, candles burn blue,
Like they know what we lost, what we been through.
Under the mountain, deep in the drum,
She sings to us soft, and we all come.
Flicker and spin, ember and glow,
Through the firelight, we still grow.

By the wall near the stage, there's her coat, still there,
Hung up neat like she’ll soon reappear.
And maybe she does, just not as we knew,
She’s a note in the brass, she’s the dew on the yew.
We don’t speak it, but we all feel the shift,
Like the mountain itself just gave us a gift.

Dancing salamanders, flames flicker high,
We move with the echoes, we don’t ask why.
Under the stars where her spirit sways,
We dance in the dark, in love’s old ways.
Flicker and spin, soul’s refrain,
A mother remembered in the mountain’s vein.

Dawn’s creepin’ in, smoke turns thin,
We sit round the ashes, not sayin’ a thing.
One by one, we rise from the stone,
But we carry the night like it’s carved in bone.
Three hearts beat where the wildflowers grow,
And the salamanders dance, soft and slow.

Dancing salamanders (Remix)

A step through the door, the warmth feels thin,
The hum of conversation hides what’s within.
An empty chair at the table, her place erased,
The room blooms with silence, her memory displaced.

The wreath hangs on the doorway, adorned with cheer,
But no one dares to mention her, not this year.
Their laughter carries lightly, a brittle, hollow sound,
He scans the room for traces, but none are to be found.

In the room where silence blooms, where her name won’t grow,
The shadows hold the stories they refuse to show.
A garden left untended, her roots still deep inside,
But the silence blooms in whispers, where the truth is forced to hide.

The lights upon the tree, they shimmer cold and clear,
Reflecting all the faces that pretend she wasn’t here.
He grips his cup in stillness, the cider’s warmth now gone,
The weight of words unspoken lingers on and on.

“Does love fade in silence, or echo through the years?
Is her light still shining, despite their quiet fears?”

In the room where silence blooms, where her name won’t grow,
The shadows hold the stories they refuse to show.
A garden left untended, her roots still deep inside,
But the silence blooms in whispers, where the truth is forced to hide.

He steps outside the chatter, the air bites his skin,
The night holds all the memories they keep locked within.
He speaks her name so softly, the stars seem to reply,
Her light still weaves through darkness, though they let her die.

Every chair has a shadow, every heart bears its weight,
The silence here is deafening, yet love does not abate.
The blooms of grief are thorned, yet their beauty still survives,
A quiet, steadfast garden where her memory thrives.

The room returns to quiet as he slips back inside,
He carries her within him, where no silence can divide.
The laughter sounds so distant, a world he cannot share,
Yet her light burns ever brighter in the love he chooses to bear.

[Chorus 3]
In the room where silence blooms, where her name won’t grow,
The shadows hold the stories they refuse to show.
A garden left untended, her roots still deep inside,
But the silence blooms in whispers, where the truth is forced to hide.

When the candles flicker softly, and the night begins to fade,
He finds her in the stillness, where their bond was made.
Though they may never speak it, her name’s etched in his heart,
And in the room where silence blooms, she’s never truly apart.

[Piano and cello fade into a quiet resolve]
The room may hold its silence, but love will always bloom,
In the garden of remembrance, where her soul resumes.

her roots still deep inside,
But the silence blooms in whispers, where the truth is forced to hide.

When the candles flicker softly, and the night begins to fade,
He finds her in the stillness, where their bond was made.
Though they may never speak it, her name’s etched in his heart,
And in the room where silence blooms, she’s never truly apart.

The room may hold its silence, but love will always bloom,
In the garden of remembrance, where her soul resumes.

The Room Where Silence Blooms

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.

New tracks tagged #samsara