[Arctic shore-warning dirge / the hum as the low call] [D dorian | the pouch is the offer to be carried out of oneself | no method, only the lean and the refusal] [INTRO] Ware the water, ware the wave A whistling lure from a watery grave It pulls you down, it steals your breath A silent dance with certain death [Bowed contrabass drone on D. Breath-hum a fifth above. Three dry knocks. Then a hold of silence.] -under— -under the white— at shore asunder [Short Djent melodic flash] [Verse 1] [Low frame drum on 1 and the off of 3. Sub-sine pulse. Close dry vocal.] They set the story down while the kettle still breathed, a green one at the lip where the good ice is sheathed. She wears the mother's coat. The hood is cut for kin. She does not knock on doors. She knocks the ice from in. Her hair is the weed that the ebb-tide refuses. Her nails are the questions a tired mind excuses. Web between the fingers, the better for the pull, and a hum like a promise that the hurting be full of nothing. Of nothing at all. [Pre-Chorus] [Second voice a fourth below, only on the line-ends. Ice-crack held back.] The old ones did not dress her so a child would play the brave. They dressed her for the evening when the camp-light will not save -will not save— the feet that want the quiet more than they want the shore. hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm [Chorus] [Octave double on the hook only. Ice-crack on the downbeat. Horn on the cadence, then out.] (She hums from under. She hums from ever under. Do not answer to the green. Do not go to ice is sunder. She wears the mother's coat. She opens the warm hood. The cold will call it keeping. The cold is not that good.) [Djent melodic] [Verse 2] [Drum thins to heart-tempo. Faint fingernail scratch under the vocal. No lift.] Some nights I am the child the telling was made for. I take the long way down. I stand and want the door that is not a door, only a thinness in the white, a place already listening, already taking light She knows the weight I carry. She will not say its name. She says be small, be carried, be finished with the shame of staying where the weather can still get at the skin. I have heard that mercy. It enters from within. It taps the soft board. It asks if I am in. [Pre-Chorus] [Harmony closer. Last line almost spoken.] She does not shout. The dark has better manners than a shout. She hums the way a house hums when the lamps have all gone out. -gone out— hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm [Chorus] [Same bed. Vocal a little nearer. Knock slightly left of the voice.] (She hums from under. She hums from ever under. Do not answer to the green. Do not go to ice is sunder. She wears the mother's coat. She opens the warm hood. The cold will call it keeping. The cold is not that good.) [Djent melodic flourish and solo] [Bridge] [Drums out. Drone and breath. Tempo suspended. Plucked low strings, then removed.] I have stood on the sinaa with my name between my teeth. I have watched her turn a kindness on the underside of grief. A pouch is not a mother just because it shuts the wind. A hum is not a healing just because it knows the end you picture when the day has worn the color off your hands. The shore is not a moral. The shore is where you stand. So I set the boot where the elders set the word. So I answer to the kettle, and not to what I heard. -not to what I heard— -step back— [Final dueling djent solos] hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm [Final Chorus] [Frame drums return. Octave double on the hook. Ice-crack on the downbeat. No choir.] (She hums from under. She hums from ever under. Do not answer to the green. Do not go to ice is sunder. She wears the mother's coat. She opens the warm hood. The cold will call it keeping. The cold is not that good.) She hums from under. Let her hum without a guest. The hood stays empty. The feet stay with the rest.) -with the rest— -with the living rest— [Outro] [Drone thins to one sine. Three knocks, unanswered. Hum fades under ice-creak. Kettle-hiss. Cut.] -unanswered— -unanswered—
