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"The Garden Without Thorns"

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Albums / Books

Abbr	Album Name	UPC	ISBN
AW	A World With No Tears	659652000823
CC	Crystal Christmas	659652000526
EA	Elegy for Atlantis	596520003282
GC	Gothic Christmas	659652000922
HH	Hymns for the Heart	659652000729
SP	In Search of the Philosopher's Stone	659652001028
MP	Midwinter Phantasy	659652000229
MS	Music of the Spheres	659652000625
MG	Musical Gematria		978-1-940630-02-1
SG	Serene Garden	659652001424
SE	Songs from Earth	659652000427
G02	Stories from GrailHeart 2
G01	Stories from GrailHeart, Vol. 1		978-1-940630-03-8
GA	The Glass Armonica		978-1-940630-00-7
OC	The Order of Chivalry	659652001523
PQ	The Passionate Quest	659652000120

"The Garden Without Thorns"

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Story 1:

{{DROPCAP: T}}here was once a land
 
 where every burden had been lifted.


 It was called
 
 the Garden Without Thorns.


 The fruit fell ripe.
 
 The sun was warm,
 
 but never hot.


 No one ached.
 
 No one aged.
 
 The people were kind,
 
 but not close;
 
 content,
 
 but not alive.


 Joy was expected.
 
 Grief was unknown.
 
 Growth was unknown.
 
 Change was unknown.

Every day was like the last —
 
 the same bland indolence
 
 drifting on forever,
 
 as far as anyone knew —
 
 If they troubled themselves
 
 to think about it.
 
 Which they didn't.


 However, one young woman
 did
 think about it.
 
 Her name was Maelin.


 Everyone else
 
 reclined in meadows of forgetfulness,
 
 lulled by the lullaby wind.


 But Maelin paced the edge,
 
 night after night,
 
 barefoot in the grass,
 
 listening for a sound
 
 that was never sung.


 Something in her longed —
 
 not for comfort,
 
 but for
 the real
 .


 Then one dusk,
 
 beneath a vine
 
 she had never seen,
 
 she found a thorn.


 A single one.
 
 Blackand curved like a question.


 It pricked her finger,
 
 and for the first time,
 
 she
 bled
 .


 And for the first time,
 
 she felt
 awake
 .


 She hid the thorn.
 
 The Elders told her to discard it:

“It carries the poison of the Old World.
 
 Struggle leads to nothing but sorrow.
 
 Best to stay away.”

But the wound stayed.
 
 And it itched with memory —
 
 not hers,
 
 but something deeper.
 
 Some ancestral ache.
 
 A whisper of a story
 
 the Garden could not hold.


 Soon, the vine with the thorn split open,
 
 revealing a narrow tunnel
 
 beyond the Garden’s edge.


 No one else saw it.
 
 Or chose not to.

She stepped through.

 Outside,


 The world beyond was vast,
 
 jagged and raw.


 Thorns were everywhere.
 
 She stumbled on stones,
 
 tore her hands on bark,
 
 shivered beneath storm clouds.


 She nearly turned back
 
 a dozen times.


 But something kept her moving —
 
 a firethat had never been lit
 
 in the Garden.


 She built her first shelter
 
 from branches
 
 with frostbitten fingers.
 
 Learned to shape fire from friction.
 
 Foraged roots.


 Her skin grew rough.
 
 Her muscles sore.
 
 She cried sometimes.
 
 Laughed too —
 
 but now the laughter had texture,
 
 like breadwith crust.


 She met others.
 
 People who had never heard of the Garden.
 
 Scarredand singing.


 They welcomed her awkwardly,
 
 unsure what to make
 
 of a girl with soft hands
 
 and haunted eyes.


 She watched them argue and embrace,
 
 failand rise again.


 And she learned
 
 the sacredness
 
 of the
 attempt
 .


 Once, in a bitter winter,
 
 she lost everything
 
 to a fire sparked by her own carelessness.

She sobbed in the snow.

 But when she rose the next morning,
 
 hungry and ash-covered,
 
 she caught her reflection
 
 in a pool of ice.


 There was grief in her face.
 
 And strength.
 
 And
 life
 .


 Much later, in the Garden,
 
 someone found another thorn.

The vine was spreading.
The Elders gathered.

“What is happening?” they asked.

And far beyond the wall,
 
 Maelin sat beside a fire,
 
 telling a story
 
 to children gathered close.


 Not a sermon,
 
 not a warning —
 
 just a
 tale
 .


 Of a place where nothing ever hurt.
 
 And how,
 
 without hurt,
 
 nothing could ever matter.


 She held up a thorn,
 
 now polished and silver,
 
 worn on a cord
 
 around her neck.

“Ease,” she said,
 
 “has a cost —
 
 a price I won't pay.”

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"The Garden Without Thorns"

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Assumes: ./final/GrailHeart-TheGardenWithoutThorns-3000x3000.jpg
Assumes: ./audio/mixdown/the-garden-without-thorns.wav
Save below to: ./mp3/the-garden-without-thorns.ffmeta
Run: make-mp3.sh

title=The Garden Without Thorns
artist=William Zeitler
composer=William Zeitler
album=Stories from GrailHeart
album_artist=William Zeitler
date=2026
genre=Spoken Word
publisher=GrailHeart
copyright=© 2026 William Zeitler / GrailHeart
copyright_url=www.GrailHeart.com
comment=Originally published at https://www.grailheart.com
track=1

"The Garden Without Thorns"

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"The Garden Without Thorns"

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Notes 1::

There was once a land where every burden had been lifted.It was called the Garden Without Thorns.The fruit fell ripe.The sun was warm, but never hot.No one ached.No one aged.The people were kind, but not close; content, but not alive.Joy was expected.Grief was unknown.Growth was unknown.Change was unknown.Every day was like the last — the same bland indolence drifting on forever, as far as anyone knew — If they troubled themselves to think about it.Which they didn't.However, one young woman did think about it.Her name was Maelin.Everyone else reclined in meadows of forgetfulness, lulled by the lullaby wind.But Maelin paced the edge, night after night, barefoot in the grass, listening for a sound that was never sung.Something in her longed — not for comfort, but for the real.Then one dusk, beneath a vine she had never seen, she found a thorn.A single one.Black and curved like a question.It pricked her finger, and for the first time, she bled.And for the first time, she felt awake.She hid the thorn.The Elders told her to discard it: “It carries the poison of the Old World.Struggle leads to nothing but sorrow.Best to stay away.”But the wound stayed.And it itched with memory — not hers, but something deeper.Some ancestral ache.A whisper of a story the Garden could not hold.Soon, the vine with the thorn split open, revealing a narrow tunnel beyond the Garden’s edge.No one else saw it.Or chose not to.She stepped through.Outside.The world beyond was vast, jagged and raw.Thorns were everywhere.She stumbled on stones, tore her hands on bark, shivered beneath storm clouds.She nearly turned back a dozen times.But something kept her moving — a fire that had never been lit in the Garden.She built her first shelter from branches with frostbitten fingers.Learned to shape fire from friction.Foraged roots.Her skin grew rough.Her muscles sore.She cried sometimes.Laughed too — but now the laughter had texture, like bread with crust.She met others.People who had never heard of the Garden.Scarred and singing.They welcomed her awkwardly, unsure what to make of a girl with soft hands and haunted eyes.She watched them argue and embrace, fail and rise again.And she learned the sacredness of the attempt.Once, in a bitter winter, she lost everything to a fire sparked by her own carelessness.She sobbed in the snow.But when she rose the next morning, hungry and ash-covered, she caught her reflection in a pool of ice.There was grief in her face.And strength.And life.Much later, in the Garden, someone found another thorn.The vine was spreading.The Elders gathered.“What is happening?”they asked.And far beyond the wall, Maelin sat beside a fire, telling a story to children gathered close.Not a sermon, not a warning — just a tale.Of a place where nothing ever hurt.And how, without hurt, nothing could ever matter.She held up a thorn, now polished and silver, worn on a cord around her neck.“Ease,” she said, “has a cost — a price I won't pay.”

"The Garden Without Thorns"

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"The Garden Without Thorns"

"The Garden Without Thorns"

"The Garden Without Thorns"

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"The Garden Without Thorns"

"The Garden Without Thorns"

"The Garden Without Thorns"

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