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In deep dusk, in deep dusk green,
the crescent moon's an air of precious sheen,
shot through with curvèd light
and clear ...
polished the shells that gleam like her.
Sad moon, you complain and light your spell,
your voice like to the swell of surging sea, surging,
And fills the hollow shell ...
Goddess with thy translucent whisper!
You hush my heart that sore laments;
pour on my dreams your light.
Pour as do the trees and plants
upon the night flower.
The slim pine black and strained
hoards your song strange beneath its skin.
Your song free to the wind,
oh twisted moon!
In my mind still I keep green murmurings of moon and sea,
and as the pine tree high copies the sea,
the sea sigh of shells.
Songs without cease echo your peace
oh moon so pale.
(c) S N Solomons
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2. |
The Park on Sunday
04:36
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The air is heavy this afternoon,
Weighs heavily upon the mind
And the heat, semi translucent,
Presses against the slate blue sky,
Tactile as a membrane,
Bulging like cling film over
The pulsing microwave
Of our dear old Park.
And Time is slow and viscous.
And scattered haphazard
On the path and grass,
Objects, people, and colours
Have a surreal identity.
The grass is greener,
Sounds more strident,
People perfect samples,
Everything in your face.
And Time is slow and viscous
Little old ladies
With short white curly hair
Take short light genteel steps
Into their Third Age.
Old gaffers with shiny pates,
Moustache akimbo,
And spine welded stiff,
Recalling how they used to march
In their lost past.
And Time is slow and viscous
Families spread untidily
And ungainly upon the grass,
With fat pink ideal babies
Squirming and cooing.
And fat pink young mothers,
Posing and dozing.
Floating and flirting girls,
Golf ball muscled boyos
Showing off to them,
Showing off their talents
To the talent.
And Time is slow and viscous
In our dear old Park
(c) S N Solomons
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3. |
Der Klonschafgesang
01:51
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Im Märzen der Bauer die Klonschafe schert
Er klont sie noch einmal dann sind sie vermehrt
Die Felder voll Schafe kein Widder zu sehn
Kein Bulle, kein Bock, und im Fluss Östrogen!
Den Rechen den Spaten den braucht er nicht mehr
Die Chemikalien sind all sein Gewehr
Auch Batteriehühne sie machen sein Geld
Er spart alle Arbeit auf Wiesen und Feld.
Knechtinnen und Mägde und all sein Gesind
Sie sind alle weiblich o' werden's geschwind
Sie trinken vom Flusse, der von der Fabrik
Fliesst schön in das Wasser trotz aller Kritik
Und ist dann der Frühling und Sommer vorbei,
so füllet die Scheuer die Bank wieder neu;
und ist voll die Scheuer, voll Keller und Haus,
was macht uns der Tod des Natürlichen aus?.
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4. |
The Cloned Sheep Song
01:50
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In springtime the farmer shears all his cloned sheep
He clones them again and the numbers do leap
The field's full of ewes, not a ram in the pen
No bull and no he-goat just all oestrogen
The rake and the spade are all things of the past
His weapons all chemicals, quite unsurpassed
And battery chickens his money do yield
And no need to labour in meadow and field
The stable ladettes and the whole of his crew
They're all of them female or soon will be too
They drink of the stream from the factory there
Which flows to the river because they don't care
And when spring and summer have turned to the fall
The barn and the bank fill with goodies and all
And if we are eating the fat of the land
What care we that nature's effectively banned?
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David Warin Solomons Sale, UK
Composer from UK born in 1953, concentrating on lyrical and tonal works for chamber music combinations, solo voice and choral works.
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