Redemption Day
– Johnny Cash

Merry Christmas to all Salon visitors !

इशरत-ए-क़तरा है दरिया में फ़ना हो जाना
दर्द का हद से गुज़रना है दवा हो जाना
– Mirza Ghalib

a drop of water loses itself in the ocean
pain beyond releif becomes its own medicine

Your Earthly Reputation

man is a bird
in an open cage, refusing
to fly away

those who have gone
and fled their cages, become
the guides and prophets

lament and bemoan,
and so be released of your
earthly reputation

only love dispels pain,
and only love overcomes
the fear of death

Johann Strauss || Persian March

And a Merry Christmas to you AHH …

A man’s a man.

This is a Scottish protest song from 1794 written in the auld Scot’s tongue by Robert Burns and known in translation to Russian serfs, German peasants and many oppressed people around the world.

At the opening of the newly allowed Scottish parliament about 20 years ago they put all the English royalty, establishment and their minions in honored seats inside and left all the common folk outside to sit on the grass. They had the cheek to sing  this song,Robert Burns would have turned in his grave. 230 Years we Scots have sung his song and still ended up a nation of sheep.

Burns night suppers are still celebrated around the world, Auld lang syne (a Burns song) is still sung at new year.

I will attempt to translate the more difficult lines.

Is there for honest poverty                                         Honest poverty is no excuse

things his head  and a that                                          to hang your head in shame, and all that

The coward slave we pass him by                              the governments goon we pass with contempt

we dare be poor for a that                                            we dare be poor for all that

For a that an a that                                                        for all that and all that

the rank is but the guineas stamp                              his rank is but his owners stamp

the mans the gowd for a that                                       the poor man’s the treasure for all that

What tho on hamely fare we dine                               Although we dine on peasants food

wear hodden grey an a that                                          wear  homespun rags, and all that

Gie fools their silks an knaves their wine                give fools their silks and grifters their wine

A mans a man for a that                                              a mans a man for all that

for a that an a that                                                      for all that and all that

their tinsel show an a that                                        their cheap bling and all that

the honest man tho e’rs sae poor                            the honest man though ever so poor

is king o men for a that                                            is king of men for all that

Ye see that birkie ca’d a lord                                  you see that ass called a lord

wha struts an stares an a that                               who struts and stares and all that

tho hundreds worship at his words                     though hundreds worship at his words

he is but a koof for a that                                       he is only a fool, for all that

For a that an a that                                                 for all that and all that

the man o independent mind                               the man of independent mind

he looks an laughs at a that                                 he looks and laughs at all that

A prince can mak a belted knight                     A prince can knight a sycophant

a marquis, duke an a that                                   a marquis, duke and all that

but an honest man aboon his might                but an honest man aware of his might

guid faith, he mauna fa that                               he will not fall for all that

the pith o sense an pride o worth                   a pinch of sense and pride of his worth

are higher rank than a that                               are higher rank than all that

Then let us pray that come it may                then let us pray that come it may

as come it will for a that                                  as come it will for all that

that sense o worth o’er a the earth               that true sense of worth, over all the earth

shall bear the gree for all that                       will bring us freedom, for all that

for a that an a that                                         for all that and all that

its coming yet for a that                                its coming yet for all that

that man tae man tha world o’er               that man to man the world over

shall brithers be for a that                          shall brothers be for all that.

Tchaikovsky – Waltz of The Flowers
https://youtu.be/Xk84EdPgtWg?si=OE-26Nbw4XCEDP7D

Dear friends, Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!
Wishing you all the very best 🌹

Come, fill the Cup, and in the Fire of Spring
The Winter Garment of Repentance fling:
The Bird of Time has but a little way
To fly – and Lo! the Bird is on the Wing

Verse 7, of Rubaiyat by Omar Khayyam
translated by FitzGerald

Russian folk song “They Say”
by The Fyodorov sisters

Friend Sudhi, thanks especially, 23491 very fine!

Marlene Deitrich – Lili Marleen

https://lyricstranslate.com/en/lili-marlen-lili-marlen.html-3

“Canopy”
Lyn Browne, 2016

At the edge of the forest
the branches lift a little,
a gentle scraping.
curtain of foliage waving us in.

Heads tilted back we strain
for a view of the high tops,
for that level that can’t be reached,
for leaves that might sting.

We don’t ask for heaven.
Staring at the canopy is awe enough,
the way the leaves shudder and tangle
We give in to the rattle.

How small we are.
It would be good to soar a little,
glimpse the way the forest tilts
towards the river.

Instead we wander the board walk,
marvel at buttresses, cat birds.
the pattern of bark, berries, cones.
If we could only fold ourselves
into the green and let go.

From the Sunshine Coast
Hinterland Poetry Trail

They say that Marlene Dietrich on tour in wartime Europe was constantly importuned very strongly by US officers. They say the lady, being a woman of some sophistication and moral quality, and an experienced actress, told these officers to deal with their problems themselves, so to say. And they say the lady fancied selecting ordinary enlisted fellows for a bit of sport, une chaude nuit de sport, and made sure the officers heard about it. Class comes in many forms… They say the lady explained herself, “these men are going to die soon, they ought to have sex with a movie star, you guys get laid anyway”.  I probably muddled the story… but Marlene was a great gal! Put those fellers in their place, and made a few enlisted very happy.

“My Son Throws a Blanket Over My Daughter”
by Palestinian poet Mosab Abu Toha

At night, at home, we sit on the floor,
close to each other and
far from the windows and the red
lights of bombs.
Our backs bang on the walls
whenever the house shakes.
We stare at each other’s face,
scared and yet happy that we were lucky,
that our lives were spared this time.

The walls wake up from their fitful sleep.
Flies gather around the only lit ceiling lamp
for warmth in the cold night,
cold except when missiles hit
and heat up houses and roads and trees,
scorching an adjacent neighborhood.

Every time we hear a bomb
falling from an F-16 or an F-35,
our lives panic.
Our lives freeze somewhere in-between,
confused where to head next:
to a graveyard, to a hospital,
or to a nightmare.
Our lives keep their shivering hands
on their wristwatch,
fingers ready to remove the batteries
if and when needed.

My four-year-old daughter, Yaffa,
in her pink dress, hears a bomb
explode. She breathes in deep,
covers her mouth with her dress’s ruffles.
Yazzan, her five-and-a-half-year old brother,
grabs a blanket warmed by his sleepy body.
He lays the blanket on his sister.
You can hide now, he assures her.
As for me and my wife, Maram, we pray
that a magic blanket would hide all the houses
from the bombs and take us to somewhere safe.
🌸🌸

This ruthless Wheel that makes so great a show,
Unravels no one’s knot, shares no one’s woe;
But when it sights a wounded, weary heart,
It hurries on to strike another blow!

– Rubāiyyāt
Umar Khayyām

“Yuma Mwel el Hawa”

Oh mother! What is with the wind?
Oh mother! what does it want from me?
I’d rather be hit by daggers
than be ruled by a scoundrel (chorus **)

and i walked under the rain
and the rain quenched my desire
and when the summer came
it ignited a flame inside me
for as long as my life remains
it will be a fight for freedom
**
As the sun sparks my spirit
So the rain dampens my desire
As a house is formed in the heat of the day
So the rain washes the bricks away
But in spite of these warring feelings
My love stays in my heart
**

Sensitive nature? Do not read this, you have been warned.

Life in the Conflict zone.

The wee hours of the night, thumps on the door, men with guns outside. Army, police, right wing militia, left wing militia, robbers, death squad? They all lie, no point in asking. To phone for help is to invite the neighborhood watch into an ambush outside their safety zone, we learned the hard way on our country roads, no one will come till morning. Pass out a bribe? They will be back next week. Fight? too many, they will burn the house down as a warning to others. The women and children are in their hiding places, small mercies, the children do not wake up. “Wait, I need to shit” loud laughter, they believe me. They too know fear.

Bag over the head, a good sign, they do not intend to kill, phone wire tying hands, not good, why no cuffs? A few slaps, routine, they want treasure and guns. This place is known as an emergency refuge for women with AIDS, they leave them alone. The cost of a life in the conflict zone in the price of a bullet, no one is ever convicted.

Bouncing around in the back of a pickup, a few kicks, nothing serious, they demand ransom in an abandoned farmhouse. They find my lawyers number on the phone they stole, “she’s your lawyer, you’re fucking kidding? The hood and bindings come off. She arrives before dawn with half the agreed ransom, tells them I still owe her for last time. She has beers and fried chicken, she is still or already half drunk, brave as a lion, we are all laughing at her dark, dark tales. Home in one piece, more or less. Who they were she will not tell, they kept the stolen stuff, she cursed them until they handed back an ancient unlicenced pump action, for protection.

Later a neighbor sells a tractor for cash, later still he gets 2 in  the head for resisting, his wife opens the safe and is spared. A neighbors elderly mother visiting from Wales throws her tea in a raiders face and is killed. A neighbor is found tortured and her throat slit. From a night vigil a small child is stolen, found butchered for muti, my ex, a sangoma (healer, herbalist, witch doctor) consoles her with traditional faith. humanity at our worst and best, the rituals were beautiful. Owner of private security company gunned down. Unknown guy gunned down. Employee’s brother killed. Five men found wired together and burned alive. A friend with AIDS is found dead on the road, her man drinks drain cleaner, both suicide. An employee is shot, stoma bag  for life. And on and on and on.

Six months later the local community leader is in the next cell, unprompted, swears he had nothing to do with raids on my place. He is in for the 5 man barbecue who he claims were responsible for an earlier, far more serious raid, who knows, it could be true. He admits his community were responsible for the 5 guys. We bond over all night chats about our respective cultures until he is released without charge, warned to clean up his mess next time. One night the heavy squad come for me (security police), banging gates, rattling keys, loud voices, the other prisoners tell them to fuck off, leave me alone.  They had to wake me up, street cred, big time. They only took me to an all night shebeen (drinking den)to pay for the drinks and fried chicken, I had no cash but everyone knew I was good for it. Back in the cell block they shout and push me around a bit to protect their own street cred.

Eventually released on bail, the community leader comes to visit, I thank him for looking after the farm, pigs, sheep and chickens are gone but the place still stands, the dogs have been fed, my tools are still there. While we talk a senior detective arrives, wants one of the expensive tables I make from old railway sleepers, but can not afford . My guns have been confiscated, he arranges a raid on a shebeen and swaps table for a fancy Italian 38 and a Russian 9mm, numbers filed off, we are both happy.

Welcome to life in the conflict zone, any conflict zone. There are no bad guys, only people trying to survive. You may think people who burn others alive or butcher children must be bad guys, savages. But ask yourself what would you do? To save a community, or a loved ones life, or prosperity. We in the Empire have committed the worst of crimes against humanity, and the excuses we consoled ourselves with were always, to save a community or a loved ones life or prosperity. We still do. Either we are all good guys or all bad guys. Eight billion mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, sons and daughters, or we are toast.

“The Promise Of Liberty”
by Mahmoud Darwish

I walk the streets of the West Bank
Without fear, though the pirates drank
My spilt blood. My feet are torn,
Swollen by a dagger, a knife, a thorn;
Yet my heart is deeply – rooted in the land
Where we walk, band after bold band!
We are a soft breeze to our friends,
And gunpowder against hostile trends:
We march, and act; and we never sleep,
Because we have promises to keep:
Freedom beckons along the horizon afar,
Leading our footsteps, like the polar star.
We spare no effort, sacrifice or toil
Till we celebrate the liberty of our soil.

Sudhi, I do not have words to express my emotions, but thank you and Mahmoud Darwish for giving me the emotions I can not express.

The Storm God

Make way, make way, for the Storm God comes;
Leave the moneyed to their manors and the impoverished to their slums.
Leave the wolfish to their banquets and the beggars to their crumbs;
Make way, make way, for the Storm God comes!

Look alive, look alive ‘fore the Storm God appears;
Leave the baby to its colic and the mother to her fears.
Leave the youth to their frolic and the aged, their souvenirs,
Look alive, look alive ‘fore the Storm God appears!

Give ear, give ear, for the Storm God he rails;
Leave the faithful to their fealty and the faithless their travails,
The traitors to their perfidy and the steadfast to their grails,
Give ear, give ear, to the Storm God’s rails!

Make haste, make haste, for the Storm God he flies;
Leave the lonely to their heartache and the lovers to their sighs.
Leave the pious to their prayers and the deceitful to their lies,
Make haste, make haste for the Storm God flies!

Come hither, come hither, for the Storm God he deploys;
Leave the killers to their kills and the alchemist his alloys,
Leave the fool to his folly and the wise man to his poise;
Come hither, come hither, for the Storm God he deploys!

Take heed, take heed, that the Storm God’s caprice,
Doesn’t find you unprepared for your premature release;
The unexpected victim of some spontaneous set piece,
Take need, take heed, of the Storm God’s caprice!

Beware, beware, lest the Storm God’s at play;
Leave the dead to the dead and the living to the day,
That the one in the many may find the narrow way…
Beware, beware lest the Storm Gods they play!

Since what exists gives only air to grasp,
since what does not produces loss and harm,
suppose that what is in this world were not,
Suppose that what is not came to exist.

– Rubāiyyāt
Umar Khayyām

Beautiful Dimitar …

Thank you Dimitar …

I very much like … the planet where you come from … makes my heart smile… friend …

Russian folk song: In the Dark Forest
with English subtitles

Some more verse for you, archeon, this time in a Blakean vein…

The Seasons

When spring arrives,
Our hopes survive;
We will conspire,
We will consult.

When summer’s high,
The harvest nigh;
We will rejoice,
We will exult.

When autumn’s trove
Adorns the grove,
And glory’s fled –
We’ll wonder why?

When winter’s hold
Grips the fold,
We’ll make our bed
And say goodbye!

Bittersweet

Life is bitter, life is sweet,
Filled with joy, filled with grief.
From rosy blush to withered cheek,
It’s fond embrace is all too brief.

Love and Duty

When love takes duty as its bride,
Beauty’s wings are opened wide.
The blight of doubt has duly fled,
And lovers’ plans are newly wed.

When love and duty are divorced,
‘Tis then that beauty’s hand is forced.
The seed of doubt takes root with haste,
And lovers’ plans are laid to waste.

Here is a song from Andalusia 🎵

Lisan Al-Din Ibn Al-Khatib was a Muslim Andalusian polymath poet, writer, historian, philosopher, physician, and politician from Emirate of Granada. Some of his poems decorate the walls of the palace of Alhambra in Granada. He is known for composing the muwashah entitled “Jadaka al-Ghaithu” and “Lamma Bada Yatathanna.”
https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ibn_al-Khatib

“Jadaka Al-Ghaithu”
(a translation)
By the one who intoxicates
with the sweetness of pain
every cup you drink becomes sweet,
and the one who sweetens your eyelids with magic
I bow before him and draw near,
and he is the one
who drives away my tears

Put your right hand on my chest
Oh, it will extinguish the flames
of the nights concealed passions
without the light of sun
in darkness of deception

The star of the cup tilted
as it fell,
his passion was straight in his path,
when sleep was pleasant, as dawn came
like the attack of the guardians
or meteors attacking us perhaps

The stars vanished, taking us with them,
or maybe influence of Narcissus’ affected us
with that which intoxicates
in all the sweetness of
the flame…

Every cup you drink is loved
and so is the one who painted your eyelids
Magic prostrates before him and approaches,
the one who made my tears flow

I turned away for no reason,
when you put your right hand on my chest,
only water is better at extinguishing the flames

O you, who are familiar to me
my heart is your home, your very existence.
the wide world has become confined
As my chest gets heavy with longing

The one with deep wide
black eyes
and whose lips are delicious
He has settled inside of me like my breath
he threw the arrow towards me
and his fierce arrow hits my heart directly
I became deaf when it shot at my heart
it was the dart of the predator

It was he who roamed in the field of the soul
and whose arrival was nothing but a dream in the desert
or was it the stealth of the embezzler.

My soporific nocturnal readings often bring me to rise and look things up…somewhat antisoporific, but also a sort of adventure… thus, minding the great Uncle Ludwig B and his constant (bio wiki Ludwig Boltzmann ) I discovered a wonderful travelogue from 1905, describing a trip to America and Berkeley in those simpler days… great charm.

In the original> Reise eines deutschen Professors ins Eldorado https://d-nb.info/1205739068/34

and in a good English edition> https://aiichironakano.github.io/phys516/Boltzmann-TripToElDorado-PhysToday92.pdf

There are wonderful old pictures, and very clever turns of speech.

Best! P

Lena Horne – Stormy Weather (1943)

Anne Murray – Snowbird (with lyrics)

https://youtu.be/pq9bHd58-LA

Have you ever Seen the Rain –
Credence Clearwater Revival
https://youtu.be/iyf0ZIh3SVo?si=stIV4Prv99gQuJb1

‘Katyusha’
[ German versions of the song ]
https://youtu.be/5BmUghACRoo?si=xTSxXaGajA8oyKoo

“Katjuscha”

Dedicated to the many fallen innocents of late…

Bring To My Grave

Bring to my grave both day and night,
Lilies pink and palest white;
That I may inhale the breath of life,
That I may forget my endless strife.

Bring to my grave both night and day
Roses wrought in fine bouquets;
That I may recall midsummer’s flight,
That I may forget my eternal plight.

Bring to my grave both bread and fruit,
The beat of the drum and the thrill of the lute;
That I may revive this mortal coil,
That I may forget the long despoiled.

Bring to my grave year after year,
The breath of your mouth and the salt of your tear;
That I be reminded of kisses fain,
That I may forget my enduring bane.

Bring to my grave the wings of a bird,
That I may feel my heart be stirred;
That I may remember the freedom of skies,
That I may forget and once again rise!

Haiku Sequence;

A Strange Ebullience

awake yet still asleep,
a sequence of guttural croaks, cries and caws;
crows talking

washing the mountain,
a colourless drizzling rain,
summer haze

black cormorant,
alighting on spindly windswept trees –
azure sea

within my despair,
a strange ebullience;
capricious sky

resplendent;
a sea eagle circles high above
me and my concerns!

“Song of the Volga Boatmen”
by Leonid Kharitoniv

@ Anoxia there is light rain…https://youtu.be/T5al0HmR4to

Elsewhere however, gathering storm.

The unz essay https://www.unz.com/aanglin/fatmercia-just-started-a-war-with-yemen-60-sites-bombed/     Contains this gem: If the US wanted to deescalate, the obvious thing would be to open negotiations. However, the United States has a policy of “no negotiations” AKA “do what we say, or we’ll kill you.” The US is a gigantic terrorist that has been holding the whole world hostage ever since the Jews took over the country several decades ago.

imho the usage is flawed, for Jews read Vice, and let us ask how Vice came to rule…no doubt by means of a systemic weakening of Virtue, which is to say internal contradictions and abandonment of the Basic Law…terming the USC as “Just a goddamn piece of paper, if I recall Bushie # 43 correctly…

So Long

So long, dear friend, it’s come to this,
Before we part, one final kiss;
Up on the hill the fires burn,
From where I’m bound there’s no return.

So long, dear one, it’s been so fine,
Finer than the finest wine;
To see your eyes and touch your face,
To hold you close in love’s embrace.

So long, my dear, I hear the drum,
I can’t believe the time has come;
Of all our nights spent so blessed,
To put our learning to the test.

So long, dear friend, however brief,
We stood our ground against the thief;
Come then, alas, with one last rhyme,
Let’s raise a toast for one last time!

So long, my friend, don’t count the cost,
The joy we shared will not be lost;
I know one day we’ll meet again,
I don’t know where, I don’t know when.

Farewell, dear friend, farewell, my dear,
The day must come to face our fear;
The things you gave I took to heart…
How it hurts to have to part!

A Sad State Of Freedom
by Nazim Hikmet:

You waste the attention of your eyes,
the glittering labour of your hands,
and knead the dough enough for dozens of loaves
of which you’ll taste not a morsel;
you are free to slave for others—
you are free to make the rich richer.

The moment you’re born
they plant around you
mills that grind lies
lies to last you a lifetime.
You keep thinking in your great freedom
a finger on your temple
free to have a free conscience.

Your head bent as if half-cut from the nape,
your arms long, hanging,
your saunter about in your great freedom:
you’re free
with the freedom of being unemployed.

You love your country
as the nearest, most precious thing to you.
But one day, for example,
they may endorse it over to America,
and you, too, with your great freedom—
you have the freedom to become an air-base.

You may proclaim that one must live
not as a tool, a number or a link
but as a human being—
then at once they handcuff your wrists.
You are free to be arrested, imprisoned
and even hanged.

There’s neither an iron, wooden
nor a tulle curtain
in your life;
there’s no need to choose freedom:
you are free.
But this kind of freedom
is a sad affair under the stars.

Soviet satirical song
“All is well, beautiful marquise”
(English subtitles)

Rumpole of the Bailey –
“The right to silence”

And many thanks to dear Mr P,
for introducing us to Rumpole

“Aatini al-Nay wa-Ghanni”
(Bring Me the Flute and Sing).
Fairuz Sings Gibran

Aatini al-Nay wa-Ghanni lyrics
(Bring me the Flute and Sing)
by Kahlil Gibran
Bring me the flute and sing, for song is the secret of eternity.
And the wailing of the flute remains, even after the end of existence.
Have you taken the forest, rather than the palace, to be your home?
Have you climbed up the creeks and the rocks?
Have you bathed in perfume and then dried yourself with sunlight?
Have you tasted the wine of the early morning from goblets of ether?
Bring me the flute and sing; that is the secret of eternity.
And the wailing of the flute remains, even after the end of life.
Have you sat alone at dusk among the grapevines?
Among their clusters hanging like chandeliers of gold?
Have you made the grass your nighttime bed?
Have you wrapped yourself in the evening air with the sky as a blanket?
So that you can allow the future to come and let go of the past?
Bring me the flute and sing, so our hearts may be in balance.
And the wailing of the flute remains, even after the end of all sins.
Bring me the flute and sing; forget maladies and their cures.
For people are but lines of poetry, written, but with water.
https://www.kahlilgibran.com/latest/142-%E2%80%9Caatini-al-nay-wa-ghanni%E2%80%9D-bring-me-the-flute-and-sing-fairuz-sings-gibran.html

They say that in postsoviet catastrophe people said “Everything the Soviets said about the West was true! and Everything they said about themselves was a lie”… variations on such ideas. Well, now everyone knows. So?

Mosfilm…set in the imaginary  realm zone USA… with wonderful dialogue!

https://youtu.be/W_cI2XSyfYg   The Russian Question... 1946 (at 56: the capitalist fink threatens the honest writer… just like now! Whaddyaknow… )

….now then, imagine taking a 1962 car from storage and driving it across country…and getting there!  Seeing Soviet analogue control flying bomb type P-35 used effectively . Bang! Good solid design, fine conservation in storage, and very good maintenance and, evidently, good results…. Unlike the recent US “Minute-Man” that’s said to be liable to explode at the wrong time.

https://defence-blog.com/russia-uses-ancient-p-35-missile-for-first-time-in-attack-on-ukraine/

G’nite Friends… Best! P

Truly special; outstanding version for solo classical guitar of the Macedonian Standard; “Makedonsko Devojče” (Macedonian Girl) written and played by Serbian Guitarist, Miroslav Tadić… soothing, uplifting and contemplative.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FHZnhbnRCik

from the poem by
Alexander Vertinsky –
“What I Have to Say”

I don’t know who would need it and what was their reason,
Who’s sent them to their deaths with unquivering hand,
They’ve been granted no mercy when people were easing
Their bodies in wet graveyard sand.

Cautious onlookers silently kept adjusting their fur coats,
And some woman from motley crowd with contorted pale face
Kissed the blue lips of her beloved, the deceased [one] she used to dote,
And she threw her engagement ring at the chaplain apace.

They were covered with green fir boughs and with dirty sand layers,
Then spectators went home to discuss on the sly
That it’s high time to end all this [sad] disgrace and say prayers,
That a famine is coming soon and we’ll have to scrape by.

And no one had a simple thought just to get down on his knees
And to tell these deceased young boys that in this dismal land
Even glorious feats are just steps to endless abysses,
To the Spring that is out of reach, that is splendid and grand.

Anne Murray – Snowbird

It is not enough to win a war
it is more important
to organize the peace.
– Aristotle

“If I Could Tell You”
by W H Auden

Time will say nothing but I told you so,
Time only knows the price we have to pay;
If I could tell you I would let you know.

If we should weep when clowns put on their show,
If we should stumble when musicians play,
Time will say nothing but I told you so.

There are no fortunes to be told, although,
Because I love you more than I can say,
If I could tell you I would let you know.

The winds must come from somewhere when they blow,
There must be reasons why the leaves decay;
Time will say nothing but I told you so.

Perhaps the roses really want to grow,
The vision seriously intends to stay;
If I could tell you I would let you know.

Suppose all the lions get up and go,
And all the brooks and soldiers run away;
Will Time say nothing but I told you so?
If I could tell you I would let you know.

“Come, Come, Whoever You Are”
by Jalal ad-Din Muhammad Rumi

Wonderer, worshipper, lover of leaving.
It doesn’t matter.
Ours is not a caravan of despair.
Come, even if you have broken your vow
a thousand times
Come, yet again, come, come.
🌹🌹

“Even in hell, if you are with me,
I would not want to leave.

And if I find myself in heaven,
without you, those wide fields will
be confining to my breathing heart.”

Rumi

With You By My Side

Whatever may come,
Whatever may be,
I surely will bear
With you by my side.
But if you should leave,
I sorely would grieve,
And the tears that I’d cry
Would never subside.

Wherever I am,
Wherever I go,
It makes no difference
With you by my side.
But if we should part
I know that my heart,
From that moment on
Will never survive.

Whenever my time
Is finally at hand,
I gladly will go
With you by my side.
But if you’re not there
Why should I care,
If the cold dark earth
Should be my bride?

Whatever may come,
Whatever may be;
I surely will bear
With you by my side.
And if you should stay,
We’ll cleave to the day;
Whate’er may betide
We’ll take in our stride!

A qawwali inspired by Rumi :

Rumpole of the Bailey
(introduced to us by Mr. P)
reciting William Wordswoth’ poem,
“It is a Beauteous Evening, Calm and Free”

It’s an interesting episode

It is a beauteous evening, calm and free,
The holy time is quiet as a Nun
Breathless with adoration; the broad sun
Is sinking down in its tranquility;
The gentleness of heaven broods o’er the Sea;
Listen! the mighty Being is awake,
And doth with his eternal motion make
A sound like thunder—everlastingly.
Dear child! dear Girl! that walkest with me here,
If thou appear untouched by solemn thought,
Thy nature is not therefore less divine:
Thou liest in Abraham’s bosom all the year;
And worshipp’st at the Temple’s inner shrine,
God being with thee when we know it not.

*******

A short poem after watching the episode:

wherefrom the reason she rejected
what had she clearly understood
was there was no sense of gratitude
would she prefer a life of incertitude

“A Winter Evening”
by Alexander Pushkin –

Sable clouds by tempest driven
Snowflakes whirling in the gales
Hark—it sounds like grim wolves howling
Hark—now like a child it wails
Creeping through the rustling straw thatch
Rattling on the mortared walls
Like some weary wanderer knocking
On the lowly pane it falls

Old our hut, is dark and dreary
By a candle dimly lit
Why, my dear, so sad weary
By the window do you sit
Is it because the storm is moaning
Has the spinning wheel’s soft whirring
Hummed a mournful song to thee

Sweetheart of my youthful springtime
Thou true-souled companion dear
Let us drink! Away with sadness
Wine will fill our hearts with cheer
Sing me a song of the bluetit
Which lives quietly across the sea
Sing me a song of how the young girl
Went fetching water in the morning

Over the earth a storm is prowling
Bringing a whirling, blinding snow
Like a beast I hear it howling
As an infant wailing low
Come, o comrade solitary
Of this cheerless youth of mine
Take a cup, and let us bury
All our many woes in wine !

I’ll drink to that!

…………

Brit TV is, has long been, like it’s nature, propagandistic…thus Rosemary and Thyme ought to be taken in small measure as propaganda, but also very soothing, an imaginary UK… https://youtu.be/KLyeMd0vZtM   Does not bring the philosophical so much to the surface, Sweet though.  Not to the standard of Rumpole. 😉

‘O Fortuna’ has its origins in the 13th century as a medieval Latin poem, which belonged to a collection known as the ‘Carmina Burana’.

English translation:

O Fortune,
like the moon you are changeable,
ever waxing, ever waning,
hateful life first oppresses
and then soothes as fancy takes it;
poverty and power it melts them like ice
fate – monstrous and empty,
you whirling wheel, you are malevolent,
well-being is vain and always fades to nothing,
shadowed and veiled you plague me too;
now through the game
I bring my bare back to your villainy
fate is against me in health and virtue,
driven on and weighted down, always enslaved.
so at this hour without delay
pluck the vibrating strings; since Fate
strikes down the strong man,
everyone weep with me!

“Eldorado”
by Edgar Allan Poe (1809 – 1849)

Gaily bedight,
A gallant knight,
In sunshine and in shadow,
Had journeyed long,
Singing a song,
In search of Eldorado.

But he grew old—
This knight so bold—
And o’er his heart a shadow
Fell, as he found
No spot of ground
That looked like Eldorado.

And, as his strength
Failed him at length,
He met a pilgrim shadow—
‘Shadow,’ said he,
‘Where can it be—
This land of Eldorado?’

‘Over the Mountains
Of the Moon,
Down the Valley of the Shadow,
Ride, boldly ride,’
The shade replied,—
‘If you seek for Eldorado!’

Karolina Gočeva; Dafino Vino Crveno

Дафино вино црвено
момчето ти е заспало.
Момчето ти е заспало
на Каракамен планина.

На Каракамен планина,
на сува рида без вода.
Ми поминале ајдути,
гунчето му го украле.

Гунчето му го украле,
во меана му го продале.
Гунчето му го украле,
во меана му го продале.

Во меана му го продале
за рујно вино црвено.
За рујно вино црвено
и бела лута ракија.

Ако му украле гунчето,
нека ми е живо момчето.
Ако му украле гунчето,
нека ми е живо момчето

Dafina, red wine
Dafina, red wine,
your boyfriend was asleep.
Your boyfriend was asleep,
on Karakamen mountain.

On Karakamen mountain,
on a slope without water.
Along came hajduks 1
and stole his vest.

They stole his vest
and sold it in a tavern.
They stole his vest
and sold it in a tavern.

Sold it in a tavern,
exchanged it for red wine,
Exchanged it for red wine,
and fine strong rakija.2

I don’t care if they stole his vest,
as long as my boyfriend is alive.
I don’t care if they stole his vest,
as long as my boyfriend is alive.

1. hajduk” means a rebel, but can also mean a thief.

2. Rakija” is a strong alcoholic beverage, spirits.

Please Hand the Devil His Walking Stick

Well, he used to be bad, he used to be lit,
The life of the party, the ultimate wit.
I’d always fall for the same old schtick,
Please hand the devil his walking stick.

Bedecked as he was in diamonds and pearls,
With his circle of the best looking boys and girls.
Always irresistible and oh so slick;
Please hand the devil his walking stick.

And if you were one of the lucky few,
You knew you’d always be skipping the queue.
Should things get tight, he’d be there in a tick;
Just hand the devil his walking stick.

I was always jealous of his sure-fire technique,
But there’s some kind of dent in the old mystique.
When I’d try to catch up he was always too quick,
Please hand the devil his walking stick!

We used to run together every day of the week;
He always had the best physique.
Now he’s ragged and thin as an old toothpick,
Please hand the devil his walking stick.

Came by the other day when I wasn’t home,
Came back again when I was all alone.
I couldn’t resist him one swift kick;
Please hand the devil his walking stick!

For such a long time we were best of friends,
But all good friendships come to an end.
Finally called his bluff and gave him the flick…
Someone hand the devil his walking stick!

The Demon Slayer’s Lot

all through the night,
slaying demons mercilessly;
the demon slayer’s lot!

upwind of bad luck;
when fleeing the dogs of war,
old wolves lie low

back at the siege camp,
the swineherd and the maiden;
if pigs could fly

in life as in death,
God’s mercy knows no limits;
the noose unravels…

beneath the cloak of misery,
the sole hope of the hopeless
shows it’s face

Night

When night descends and veils the earth,
The bat wings t’ward its twilit quest.
The traveller procures himself a berth,
And welcoming sleep, takes his rest.

The moon begins its nightly climb,
Kissing each and every star;
As children dream their dreams in time
And place their wishes in a jar.

Simple folk lay down their cares.
Kings and queens remove their crowns.
Both alike send out their prayers,
And naked, lay their bodies down.

Falsehood feints on bended knee,
And dons its mask to hide its face.
The audience pays its entry fee
As players join to take their place.

When night descends and veils the earth,
The instinctive self is energised.
All good men reveal their worth,
As truth steps forth undisguised.