Mentol Nomad - Cuerdas del Oleaje (2010)

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Tides whisper in ancient tongues, where echoes of forgotten harps drift through mist-laden air. A spectral string, plucked from the hands of an unnamed muse, calls forth the rhythm—steady as the march of time. Low-voiced violins murmur in the undercurrent, airy specters weave between their sighs, and synthesized glimmers ripple like fleeting constellations on water’s edge.

The dusky shoreline hums, waves retreating in spectral tones, leaving behind delicate tendrils of light—unseen strings, plucked by the wind. A golden horizon dissolves into mist, where echoes of a melody, half-remembered, drift between sky and water. Faint figures, neither here nor gone, weave through the currents, their presence lingering in the rippling reflections.

A melodic convergence—each voice summoned as if by fate, lingering in ephemeral union before bowing to silence. Everything moves in unison—sound, tide, time—until, one by one, the elements unravel. No fading, no vanishing—only the quiet, inevitable cessation, as if the ocean itself has decided the song is complete.