A GrailHeart story.
The village blacksmith was
a man of steady heat and hand.
With a few quirks no one quite understood.
(more…)
Stories, Reflections & Music
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The Quirky Blacksmith
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As Above, So Also Below — A Musical Ambigram
Music, like the cosmos, has its hidden symmetries.
Turn it over, and it tells you the same truth – yet not the same.
Right becomes left, above becomes below,
but the song still breathes.
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Branches Longing for Birds
(Poem & Music)
There is a kind of longing that does not chase.
It does not run or reach.
It simply stretches — quietly, openly
— toward the possibility of something unseen.Like branches.
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The Listening Light
I stepped into the old stone chapel,
its door half-swallowed by ivy,
its windows dusted in the hush of years.
A single beam of afternoon
cut through the dusk like a blessing.
Dust floated like memory,
and the stones exhaled
a silence older than prayer.
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Where Crossroads Hold Their Breath
From her earliest days, Nia could hear them:
the murmurs of other lives she might have lived.
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The Gödel Horizon and the Limits of Certainty
The 19th century was drunk on certainty.
Steam power, steel, calculus, colonialism – humanity, it was said, could conquer anything. Science would solve all mysteries. Mathematics would explain the universe. There was nothing, it seemed, we couldn’t measure, map, and master.
But the 20th century put an end to that illusion.
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The Thread that Does Not Burn
There was once a tailor who lived on the edge of a city that was always on fire.
Not literal — but as if people were running from flames day and night: in the racing footsteps, the wild, panicked eyes over market stalls, the fevered cacophony of deals struck in haste.
The people lived fast, spent fast, aged fast.
And whoever slowed down was swept away like ashes. (more…) -
The Library with No Titles
No map marks its location, and yet many find it.
Some say the Library appears only to those who have lost something they cannot name.It has no sign above its door, no carvings on its lintel. The stones are old and slightly warm to the touch, as though remembering sun from another world. Its wooden door opens inward, with a sigh like silk over skin.
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The Wager
No one saw the Stranger arrive.
One autumn morning, as mist unspooled itself from the hills, he was simply there—seated at the dry edge of the old fountain, scribbling in a thick, weather-stained book. His boots were worn, his coat dark and plain. He neither begged nor bargained. He only watched, listened, and wrote. (more…)
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Hymn to Poseidon
I wrote and recorded this piece back in 1999 for glass armonica and synthesizers. Electronic music technology was still relatively primitive, and I was new at it. (more…)