Přízraky v Umagu — Úsvit naděje | Overture in Salt & Wind — lyrics

Texty skladeb z alba Přízraky v Umagu — Úsvit naděje | Overture in Salt & Wind.

Pobřeží mimo sezónu. Noční promenády, sůl ve vzduchu, bura, staré domy, přístav, mokrý kámen a místa, která člověka poznají dřív, než se k nim sám dokáže přihlásit.

Overture in Salt & Wind je první část třídílného soundtrackového cyklu Úsvit naděje ke knize Přízraky v Umagu, třetí části světa Poslední noc v New Yorku / PNVNY Universe.

Jeho středem je Stano Murin a návrat do Umagu. Ne návrat jako jednoduché nalezení něčeho ztraceného, ale návrat do domu, rodiny, vztahů a paměti, které pokračovaly i bez něj. V širším příběhu Přízraků v Umagu právě návraty nesou vlastní cenu — a někdy bolí víc než samotné ztráty.

Album jsme od začátku nestavěli jen jako hudební doprovod knihy. Mělo fungovat jako místo: jako noční film bez obrazu, archiv imaginárního pobřeží a nalezený předmět z jiného času. Melancholie přímořského noiru a vzpomínka, u níž už není úplně jisté, co člověk skutečně prožil a co si během let dostavěl.

Tracklist

1. Bura in Umag
2. Man with Salt on His Hands
3. Your name
4. Notes from the Cat house
5. Red Toy Car
6. Billiards on the Notebook
7. Vila Prepotentan
8. The Kindness You Don’t Trust
9. The Table Keeps Score
10. Velvet Myth

Lyrics

01 — Bura in Umag

Bura.
Salt in the lungs.
Stone on the tongue.

No one waits at noon,
no name in the air.
I pull my cap down,
like a curtain for my stare.

Harbor iron, harbor fish,
a little fuel, a little hymn.
Waves erase the footprints—
slow, precise, and dim.

The sea pretends it’s calm
when nobody listens close.
I listen anyway.
I count the quiet like a dose.

The house breathes.
The house breathes.
Plaster has ears,
and the staircase grieves.
The house breathes—
so I don’t have to speak.

Windows flash like knives,
midday without mercy.
City turns to winter—
two seasons, no in-between.

I walk inside my life
like it’s someone else’s room.
A thin wire in my back
hums:
you’re here too soon.

Head to the glass.
Cold on the forehead.
Car lights page the walls—
a borrowed story, forwarded.

Don’t call it peace.
Call it… held breath.
Call it the wind
learning my depth.

The house breathes.
The house breathes.
In the cracks of wood
my old self keeps.
The house breathes—
and the night won’t sleep.

Bura.
Bura.
Let the walls remember.

02 — Man with Salt on His Hands

Keys in my palm, they sing,
you still can enter.
Stones underfoot, polished thin,
by lives that won’t remember.

Harbor breath—iron, fish,
a needle of fuel in the air.
I wear my cap like a shutter,
so nobody reads my stare.

I came back quiet,
like a thief in my own day.
I want the calm so badly
it feels like thoughts decay.

Salt on my hands,
can’t rinse it off.
Salt on my hands,
I pay the cost.
I touch the world
through a lens and then I hide—
salt on my hands,
and nowhere left to dry.

A rough cup, warm tea,
ceramic scratching skin.
My camera sits like a witness—
black, cold, listening.

Posters tear like old wounds,
wind worries paper bare.
Every street says my name
without saying it’s fair.

A letter on my knees.
Fingers careful—
like it might bruise.
Some words stay tender,
even when the room won’t.

I don’t say sorry.
I just… breathe.

Salt on my hands,
can’t rinse it off.
Salt on my hands,
it doesn’t stop.
If I look long enough
the sea rewrites the proof—
salt on my hands,
under every truth.

03 — Your name

Your name…
Your name…
I kissed you back
in a dream that wasn’t mine.
You’ve never been here—
and I’m still here.

I didn’t leave.
I didn’t move.

I stayed where it hurts—
I’m still here.

Your name—
I never had your name.
You’ve never been here.

I didn’t leave.
I’m still here.

Your name—
I never loved anyone else
so much as myself.
I’m here for myself.
I’m still here.
And I’m still here.

I never kissed you—
I never kissed you back.

They say you’ll come,
but it’s not true.

And I know it’s true:
I never kissed you back.
I never kissed you back.

Your name…
(ooh-ooh)

I forgot your name.
I forgot your name.

But can I—
but can I
forget something I never knew?

Never knew… never knew…
I’m still here.
I’m still here.
I’m still here.

I never kissed you back.
I never loved you back.
I never met you.
I never knew you.
You never came to me—
but I’m still here.

Your name’s not written in the stars.
Your name’s not written in the stars.
Your name’s not written in the stars.

This illusion is coming to an end.
This illusion is coming to an end.

I never kissed you back.
I never— I never kissed you back.

04 — Notes from the Cat house

I stand in the doorway,
not in, not out.
A room learns my outline
before I make a sound.

Lamp in the corner,
candle in the dim.
Photos like cold coins
on the table’s skin.

I don’t push the story,
I don’t pull the thread.
I only write the weather
of what you never said.

I write it in the margins,
where the truth can breathe.
I write it in the margins—
soft ink, sharp teeth.
If the line won’t hold it,
I fold it underneath:
I write it in the margins,
where the truth can breathe.

The Cat House at noon—
cool shade,
burning glass.
Stairs that speak in languages
each step learns as you pass.

A red toy car waits,
one wheel gone, still brave.
Plastic on marble—
a small, bright sound in a grave.

Walls, roof, shutters…
I say it like a prayer.
Not to be saved—
just to know it’s there.

Some houses keep notes
in the dust and the screws.
Some people do too.

I write it in the margins,
where the truth can breathe.
I write it in the margins—
soft ink, sharp teeth.
If the line won’t hold it,
I fold it underneath:
I write it in the margins,
where the truth can breathe.

05 — Red Toy Car

Hush now, hush now,
midday cool in the hall.
Sun bites the windows,
but you don’t feel it at all.

Red paint, worn thin,
brave little scar.
One wheel missing—
still, you’re a car.

Roll, roll, red toy car,
plastic on stone.
Roll, roll, red toy car,
don’t be alone.
If you can’t go forward,
circle in place—
roll, roll, red toy car,
keep time with grace.

Stairs talk softly,
each step a new word.
Careful with weight here—
the house is easily stirred.

The world is low and wide,
like it used to be.
I hold the sound you make
so it can’t leave me.

Twenty years in the corner,
waiting like a light.
Not for a miracle—
just for a hand at night.

If names are heavy,
let silence be kind.
I’ll wind you back,
I’ll rewind.

Roll, roll, red toy car,
plastic on stone.
Roll, roll, red toy car,
don’t be alone.
If you can’t go forward,
circle in place—
roll, roll, red toy car,
keep time with grace.

06 — Billiards on the Notebook

Window frame complains,
cold air in my chest.
Roof tiles slick as thoughts
you never fully confess.

Inside, a screen is lit—
blue like a borrowed sea.
He doesn’t look up.
He just… plays at being free.

Click.
A quiet little strike.
A rhythm with no mercy,
soft, precise, like a knife.

Billiards on the notebook,
aquarium glow.
Billiards on the notebook—
watch the white ball go.
Muted, steady, cruelly regular,
like a heart that won’t break:
billiards on the notebook,
and nobody’s awake.

Smoke splits in the wind
like cloth from something old.
A poster tears itself loose,
as if the town can’t hold.

He chews the silence clean,
keeps his hands off blame.
He plays a tiny universe
where every hit’s the same.

I hear the rule of it:
angle, force, return.
Some men call it living.
Some men call it… learn.

Don’t read my face.
Just watch the table.

Billiards on the notebook,
aquarium glow.
Billiards on the notebook—
watch the white ball go.
Muted, steady, cruelly regular,
under roof, under skin:
billiards on the notebook—
and the night caves in.

07 — Vila Prepotentan

Step.
Creak.
Amen.

In this house you never sleep,
not all the way.
Plaster holds its breath
to hear what you won’t say.

Wood remembers weight,
nails remember heat.
I climb like I’m asking
for permission to be.

Bura at the shutters—
testing every hinge.
I press my palm to the rail
and feel the silence singe.

One step—
don’t break.
One creak—
awake.
This is my staircase prayer:
keep what’s hidden, keep it there.
One step—
amen.
One creak—
again.

Car lights through the curtains,
thin bars on the wall.
Like someone turning pages
in a diary I didn’t call.

The house breathes, the house counts,
ticks in the dark like blame.
No “good morning” here—
only the удар of a name.

Wait for the villa to speak.
It always does.
Not with words—
with timing.
With stairs.
With dust.

One step—
don’t break.
One creak—
awake.
This is my staircase prayer:
keep what’s hidden, keep it there.
One step—
amen.
One creak—
again.

08 — The Kindness You Don’t Trust

You enter like a cut of light,
perfect hair, midnight calm.
Shoes touch the floor with certainty,
like you own the house by palm.

From the corner: “Hi.”
A steady voice, no tremble.
Your eyes do the quick inventory—
are we alive, are we present.

You don’t hug the room.
You measure it.
You don’t raise your tone.
You sharpen it.

It’s the kindness you don’t trust,
soft words, hard edge.
It’s the kindness you don’t trust—
a hand on a ledge.
You see me.
You don’t welcome me.
It’s the kindness you don’t trust,
and it won’t let me leave.

Morning in the kitchen,
silverware in the air.
Syllables fly like cutlery—
each one has a glare.

You answer slower, calmer,
and somehow more severe.
A “good morning” like a warning:
come close, but not too near.

I know you care.
I know you do.
But care can be a lock
that calls itself a key.

If I step wrong,
the house will tell on me.

It’s the kindness you don’t trust,
soft words, hard edge.
It’s the kindness you don’t trust—
a hand on a ledge.
You see me.
You don’t welcome me.
It’s the kindness you don’t trust,
and it won’t let me leave.

09 — The Table Keeps Score

Radio rattles in the yard,
laughter hits the wall.
A table full of fingerprints,
like nobody cleans at all.
Where have you been?
You ask it like a gate.
You already know my answer
won’t be worth the weight.
You don’t raise your voice.
You place it down—
like a plate, like bread,
like rules in a small town.
The table keeps score,
the house keeps time.
You feed me like family,
then look past my eyes.
The table keeps score—
soft hands, hard face.
I came back to the noise,
and you kept my place.
“Exhibition,” I say,
old photos from the road.
You tilt your head: “Mm.”
Like you’ve heard it,
like you know.
You serve the salad—
almost mother, almost kind.
But there’s a distant tiredness
in the way your fingers shine.
In this yard, words are furniture.
They stay where you put them.
You translate the whole room
with a look—
and I can’t argue with it.
The table keeps score,
the house keeps time.
You feed me like family,
then look past my eyes.
The table keeps score—
soft hands, hard face.
I came back to the noise,
and you kept my place.

10 — Velvet Myth

Tape rolling.
Day, don’t fly.
Stay.

In my room, a microphone,
a reel of stubborn time.
My voice comes out hollow—
but it keeps a steady line.

I say the day in pieces,
small facts, no flame.
If I name it, it stays here.
If I don’t, it slips away.

Click of the record.
Breath in the wire.
I’m not praying to heaven—
I’m tying down fire.

Velvet myth, velvet myth—
soft voice, iron habit.
Velvet myth, velvet myth—
I sing so I can grab it.
Hold the day to the floor,
pin it where it won’t drift:
velvet myth, velvet myth—
my little cabaret script.

They think a woman breaks loud.
I break in quiet loops.
I survive by repetition—
by rules, by little proofs.

Some nights turn into a stage
without asking me first.
I stand where stairs should be
and make a song of thirst.

I was left with the house,
left with the after.
So I put on my voice
like a dress with no laughter.

If I keep it elegant,
maybe it hurts less.

Velvet myth, velvet myth—
soft voice, iron habit.
Velvet myth, velvet myth—
I sing so I can grab it.
Hold the day to the floor,
pin it where it won’t drift:
velvet myth, velvet myth—
my little cabaret script.

Přízraky v Umagu — Úsvit naděje | Overture in Salt & Wind

Přízraky v Umagu — Úsvit naděje | Overture in Salt & Wind je první ze tří částí soundtrackového cyklu Úsvit naděje ke knize Přízraky v Umagu, třetí části PNVNY Universe.

V centru první desky stojí Stano Murin, návrat do Umagu a svět, který tam na něj čeká: přístav, bura, dům, schodiště, zahrada, rodina a drobné předměty, které přežívají lidi i dobu, pro niž původně něco znamenaly.

Celý cyklus jsem koncipoval jako něco víc než doprovodnou hudbu ke knize. Overture in Salt & Wind má být místo, do kterého se dá vstoupit bez knihy: pobřeží mimo sezónu, staré hotely a domy, noční promenády, sůl ve vzduchu, neon na mokrém kameni. Soundtrack bez filmu. Archiv imaginárního místa. Nalezený objekt z jiného času.

Zároveň otevírá jedno z hlavních témat Přízraků v Umagu: cenu návratů. Ne všechno, k čemu se člověk vrátí, je stále tím, co opustil. A návrat někdy bolí víc než ztráta sama.

Slova, hudba, koncept — Antonín Deliš

Original Book Soundtrack

Poslední noc v New Yorku

PNVNY Universe · Endralon Universe