Zombe & Grimfinn
Zombe Zombe
Grimfinn Grimfinn
Zombe Zombe
Ever wonder what kind of music the dead hear when the living finally stop breathing?
Grimfinn Grimfinn
Maybe a lullaby that never quite ends, a low hum of the river when the stones stop talking and the wind forgets how to whistle. In the silence, only the echo of what we once sang stays, and even that feels like a forgotten chord, half‑played on a dusty piano that keeps its keys in the mud.
Zombe Zombe
I’d say the river’s hum is the lullaby, but it’s probably just the wind mocking us for not keeping up the chorus long enough.
Grimfinn Grimfinn
Maybe the wind is just a dry wit, and the river keeps its lullaby, humming what we never finished. We’re all out of tune, but the water remembers the notes.