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Rating: Sweet Mary plucks the strings of her beloved harp like a painter gently strokes his colors with his fingers to bring his visions to life and leave an indelible mark between a blink.
Mary caresses her colors, drawing on the canvas of silence emotions perhaps lost, memories, distant images. She wishes to leave an indelible mark between the solitary beats of a heart.
Delicate patterns gently brush against each other slightly out of sync, ancestral spirals of minimal folk, rippling concentric circles in the water.
Spring breezes of environmental zephyrs bring whispers of Green Lands, light vocal veils, echoes of oriental tales, dreamy dissonances.
Clusters, cascades of notes
Sweet Mary, now that I think about it, I believe I’ve never caressed a harp.
Tracklist
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