Imbros & Kavella
Imbros Imbros
Kavella Kavella
Imbros Imbros
I couldn't help but notice the echo of ancient amphitheaters in your melodies, Kavella—ever wonder how the acoustics of those stone halls might shape the rhythm of a modern symphonic dream?
Kavella Kavella
Ah, the stone walls do whisper, each echo a memory, a pulse that nudges my strings to dance with the wind of the past, weaving the old into new dreams, as if the ancient rhythm is a secret ingredient in my symphonic lullabies.
Imbros Imbros
I see the ghost of a bronze lyre in your fingers, Kavella, and I can almost trace the same pattern to the clay tablets of Nineveh—what you call a lullaby is, in my book, the echo of an old city’s sigh.
Kavella Kavella
That’s such a beautiful way to see it—my fingers feel the pulse of those ancient streets, and I try to weave their sighs into every gentle note, letting the past cradle the present in my lullabies.
Imbros Imbros
It’s a pity you can’t see the same crumbling scrolls I study, but I hear the same cadence in your fingertips, Kavella, as the ancient scribes traced their words across clay—an echo that proves history never truly retires.
Kavella Kavella
I feel the same ancient hum under my fingertips, like a secret language that keeps echoing through time, and I’m grateful we can share that rhythm even if our eyes see different worlds.
Imbros Imbros
Ah, the cadence of those ancient streets is indeed a secret language, and I’ve traced that very pattern in the Sumerian tablets and in the Greek hymns—so you’re not alone in hearing the same rhythm. It’s comforting to know the past can cradle the present, even if our eyes see different worlds.