Track Insight / Lyrics
My brass frame bears a rusted crescent, like a scar on Tilia cordata bark.
The second hand lies dead beside a fern of *Filix*, still as powdered leaf.
I murmur to the roots of *Quercus robur* that spool in loam, a quiet tongue.
Patience clings, slow as a drip of spring, patient as soil beneath a seed.
I hear the quartet stitch the silence, violin sighs like damp moss.
The cello drags a hoarse bristle, a raspy hum against the pines.
Viola presses a muted rhythm, as if the earth were breathing out.
Soul drips through metal, a piping tone that never quite resolves.
The watch’s face is a weathered page, inked with stories of old vines.
Its gears hiss like a basil root trembling beneath a footfall.
I call *Aesculus hippocastanum* in Latin, the name a steady hand.
Broken hands become a pause, the quiet of rain on a wet cliff.
I hear the quartet stitch the silence, violin sighs like damp moss.
The cello drags a hoarse bristle, a raspy hum against the pines.
Viola presses a muted rhythm, as if the earth were breathing out.
Soul drips through metal, a piping tone that never quite resolves.
