Teague unfurls like the whisper of steam rising from a porcelain cup of matcha at dawn, an echo of ancient Gaelic syllables—Tadhg—whose meaning, poet or philosopher, drifts over emerald hills as softly as cherry blossoms drifting toward a silent garden pond. With each utterance, it conjures weathered storytellers tracing runes in moss-clad stones, while in its cool restraint it recalls the hush of a Kyoto temple under moonlight; its syllables refuse to clamour, preferring instead to linger like a lone crane mid-flight against an azure sky. It confounds no one by bursting into song or insisting on more syllables than it needs; rather, it sits at the edge of conversation as composed as a brushstroke on rice paper—an unassuming name that speaks of quiet strength, storied depth, and the timeless dance between Irish melody and Japanese stillness.
| Teague Moore - |