The Echo of Granite Peaks

Amidst the craggy heights, where granite kisses sky, There dwells a voice, a tempest’s cry, A soul aflame, a melody unbound, Glenn Hughes, the Voice of Rock, profound. From Trapeze’s wings, he soared aloft, A troubadour of rhythm, a velvet voice so soft, In Deep Purple’s embrace, he wove a cosmic tale, His bass notes echoing through time’s gossamer veil. Black Country Communion, a symphony of fire, Their fifth album forged in passion’s forge, desire, Strings plucked like heartstrings, lyrics etched in gold, Glenn’s voice, a beacon, a tale of legends told. And oh, the Dead Daisies bloomed with fervent might, Their petals kissed by sun and moon’s soft light, He sang of resurrection, of rock’s eternal flame, A phoenix rising, defying fate’s cruel game. California Breed, a fusion of sun and sea, Their chords like ocean waves, wild and free, Glenn’s voice, a compass, guiding lost souls home, Across the vast expanse, where dreams and tides roam. Deep Purple, oh, the purple haze of yore, A canvas painted with stardust, forevermore, His voice, a comet streaking through cosmic night, Igniting constellations, birthing new light. So here, dear readers, listen close and hear, The echo of granite peaks, the songs that steer, Glenn Hughes, the maestro, his legacy unfurls, Metaphors carved in stone, resonating world