An instinct for time’s taut cadences. A tight, caressing thunder. A vital and golden noisiness. A furious imagination. A voice from a younger universe, warm as art, eternal as life.
And a song is born.
They weave decadences of silence, and trace through them glittering strands of storm. The air holds the afterglow of flaming interwoven glances, of fingers on the pulse of time, of five musicians listening to each other.
Many are not there now that were before, but time has not reclaimed her gift. They still weave colours and hear the elder songs. Now it is Marco who draws from the night the shimmering thunder of stars unseen.
Tarja’s voice was heady and remote as sunrise on the mountains. Annette’s was brown as the sun on the edge of the woods. Floor’s is deep as starlight, clear as night.
They are still Nightwish.