🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🌈☀️🌈💧🤷‍♂️🖖😜😘🫠☺️🥳🍄😑✨✨and so f. On

What you give

Prisoner

🌑 THE NIGHT‑BORN CANTICLE
A small ritual for those who listen in the dark

In the hour when shadows forget their names,
a slow pulse rises from the sand —
a circle of four chords, turning like an old lantern,
calling the wanderer into the quiet ceremony.

Guitars whisper in tremolo,
threads of silver pulled through the night air.
A bassline coils beneath them,
warm, patient, ominous,
as if guarding a secret no one remembers.

Percussion appears only when the spirits allow it:
🥁 a palm on stretched skin,
🔨 a wooden click,
🌑 a low pulse echoing under the ribs.
Nothing marches. Everything breathes.

Above, the temple hums:
🕸️ organ‑drones like distant constellations,
🌫️ detuned harmonics bending like incense smoke,
📼 tape‑warps drifting in and out of time
— the sound of an ancient room exhaling.

And then the voice:
a wind‑carried murmur,
half‑chant, half‑shadow,
never asking to be understood,
only to be followed.

This is not a song.
It is a threshold.
A small door in the desert night.
A ritual that opens only for those who walk slowly.

Mario‑core.
Collettivo‑dark‑core.
A vibration carved in the dark.

Love in Any Language (Extended)

William DeVaughn

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