After a few seconds of blank air, a low rumble and outdoor air come into view—still, unhurried, more weather than beat.

Warm low drone gathers first, and the upper air stays open before the wooden pulse settles in.

By now the step is steady enough to lean into without counting—walked, not marched, with small attacks brushing the sides.

Voice enters as guide more than narrator: blind eyes, and a path taken without ordinary sight, over the same circle of rhythm.

Draw breath in, let thoughts fly—the instruction lands like a physical adjustment over the tread.

Then out slowly, on the wind, while the drum keeps the body from drifting.

Spindle, entwined thought, revolving sight—and the music answers by staying almost stubbornly stable.

Out through the door and cobweb-veil, bare feet, a heavy burden—the drum is still the tether under every threshold word.

Innermost steep trail, Healing-Peak, nine maidens waiting—the climb presses by repetition, not by swelling.

First crossing: pause, leave clothes and all you own. The pulse treats the stripping with the same step.

The burden lightens, but the trail stays heavy—and you can hear that weight because the drum keeps carrying it.

Second stop: leave time and weighty thoughts. Same pause shape, same walking law underneath.

Third crossing—fears and masks—and the edge around the vocal feels a little more exposed, as if the path has climbed above cover.

Burden lightens again, and some mass under the drum loosens without breaking the ritual step.

Naked at the top—the mountain knows you. Eagle-wing and wind, and other voices start to widen the space.

Shadow-women circling, chanting runes—the lead stays centered while the surrounding tones enlarge the rite without crowding it.

Wounds and sickness, named layer by layer—marrow, blood, meat, bone. No pleading; just exact address.

Flesh and skin into weather and wind—you fade—and the pulse still feels like procedure more than comfort.

I summon you into the mountain blue, where neither sun nor moonshine can reach.

Out to the sea where no man rows—answering voices pull the line farther out while the body stays on the tread.

Through rivers, rolling with the tides—the song sends something away without letting the ground float off.

Healing-hill stands for the sick and sore. Same measured gait, but the words have changed their task—what was stripped now has somewhere to go.

Leave it on Healing-Peak, where rivers and streams dance north and down. The repeated motion starts to sound like water finding a course.

That mountain mends all those who climb—and the late stretch holds with the calm of something already decided.

Near the end the surface clears a little around the ongoing pulse—clearer, not bigger.

The rhythm loosens its hold. The carried step falls out from under the body.

Long quiet. Not afterglow—just the open place the last step leaves.