Drums of Mali shake the ground,
Voices rise, a circling sound.
Kora strings and dust and heat,
Old souls move on tireless feet.

Up the mountains cold and wide,
Caucasus winds on fiddle slide.
Wine and thunder, fire and clay,
Echo songs that never fade.

Every border hums the same,
Different tongues, a single flame.

From the Andes to the desert plain,
Folk keeps calling through the rain.
No empire owns that song,
It’s been here all along.

Gypsy strings in Balkan bars,
Oud and darbuka under stars.
Samba feet and desert cry,
Markets hum, the flutes reply.

From the steppes the voices roll,
Throat and sky become one soul.
Erhu bends the morning light,
Stories bloom from sleepless night.

Every border hums the same,
Different tongues, a single flame.

From the Andes to the desert plain,
Folk keeps calling through the rain.
No empire owns that song,
It’s been here all along.

Oud, kora, charango, shamisen,
Balalaika, rabab, cajón again.
One heartbeat, north to south,
Every story from every mouth.

From the Andes to the desert plain,
Folk keeps calling through the rain.
No empire owns that song,
It’s been here all along.

No flag, no crown, no claim —
Folk is the earth, it has no name.

No empire owns that song (Folk Rock reload)

For ten days I'm in RELOAD mode, reworking all my creations from the past twenty days and transforming them into a different musical universe
The entire sound is in my hands. I write cyber poetry, produce, and compose every track ready for Immersive 3D. Every beat is crafted for spatial and next-gen headphones.
Intimate lyrics, total immersion, every track.

For 30 years I kept unfinished demos to myself, never letting them out. Now I finish what I start and release it the moment it’s alive.

No empire owns that song (Folk Rock reload)

Terminalose