It's an extra bowl. The notes of wonderous music. As the crackling of the fire, or the soothing sound of rain. The gently noise of the wind blowing through the leafs. A passionate embrace by the bonfire.
One tells that the hunter was wandering in the forest when he heard a beautiful sound. A considerable time elapsed: one said to the other, I really wonder if there is a witch out in the wood. A singing witch. Her voice has indeed a strange sweet sound! Shall we go there and see what the cause of it is?
And many went. They belonged to different expeditions and went at different times. Too much. Far too many. They didn't know. They didn't understand. And say that she is evil. Condemned her to death and burned her. And she sang.
She wanted nothing more than to be understood. And loved by. Freely. That would be a world that does sound beautiful, and one where understanding would be the norm, and that is an idea worth spreading.
The witch. Lilith goddess.
The hunter fell in love with her and dedicated a song to her memory.
She sings his song as she burns.
The Occitan Language, mystery and miracle, is an act of faith towards the mountain, the wood, the love for the mountain, the wood. It's the most wonderful thing I'd ever heard.
Ai begut a l'amor.
A l'ombra de ta soca
Ai colcat un totjorn.
S'èri poèta e se m'aimaves
Aital seriá nòstra cançon.
Mas siás de fusta dins mos braces
E trauca, trauca lo cusson.
Al flume de ton pèl
Ai negat ma rason.
Ai daissat lo tropèl
Per seguir ta sason.
E puèi me soi penjat
Al negre de tos uèlhs.
La sason a cambiat
Per un autre solelh.
Las raras de ton còs
M'an donat un país.
La jòia de mon sòrt
Me trapa mai que ric.
D'autras causas encara
Me viran l'esperit.
Mas çò que ne son ara
Aquò es pas escrit.
To roll the R. To sharpen the knife. With it open old and new wounds that do not heal. There is no forever. Except for the pain. 🎧 R.I.P. Sepultura.
