Alligator Bites Never Heal

DENIAL IS A RIVER

هذه الأغنية هي تأمل مؤثر في الطبيعة العابرة للحياة والجمال. تروي كلمات الأغنية بصوت هاردي الحزين المميز قصة وردة تتفتح وتعيش حياة قصيرة ولكنها جميلة ثم تذبل. تعمل الوردة كاستعارة للوجود البشري، وتؤكد على مدى عابرية الحياة وحساسيتها. يؤكد السطر المتكرر (نحن مجرد اشياء تافهه) على التواضع والهشاشة المتأصلة في حياتنا.
تبدأ الأغنية بسرد الوردة لدورة حياتها، منذ ولادتها عند الفجر، وتعميدها بالندى، إلى إزدهارها تحت الشمس، وأخيراً تدهورها وموتها. تعكس دورة الحياة هذه التجربة الإنسانية، وتسلط الضوء على حتمية الشيخوخة والموت. إن تحول الوردة من "أجمل زهرة في الحديقة" إلى "غبار إلى الأبد" بمثابة تذكير صارخ بعدم ثبات الجمال المادي والحياة نفسها. 
في الجزء الأخير من الأغنية، يراقب القمر موت الوردة، ونرى روحها ترقص خلف الغيوم مبتسمة. تقدم هذه الصورة إحساساً بالأمل والتسامي، مما يشير إلى أنه في حين قد تفنى الأشكال المادية، فإن شيئاً من الجوهر يبقى. تتطرق كلمات هاردي أيضاً إلى الحاجة إلى الإيمان والأمل، حيث تقول (صدق أو لا تصدق، فأنا بحاجة إلى الأمل). يلتقط هذا السطر الشوق البشري إلى المعنى والاستمرارية خارج العالم المادي، حتى في مواجهة الاضمحلال الحتمي.
تعد أغنية "Mon Amie La Rose" للمغنية فرانسواز هاردي تأملاً جميلاً في الطبيعة الزائلة للحياة، وحتمية الموت، والحاجة الدائمة إلى الأمل والإيمان. تدعو الألحان الرقيقة للأغنية وكلماتها التأملية المستمعين إلى التأمل في حياتهم والجمال العابر الذي يحيط بهم. 

كُتبت الأغنية رداً على وفاة الممثلة سيلفيا لوبيز بسرطان الدم في عام (1959).

Mon amie la rose - Fancoise Hardy

music to watch boys to x i wanna be yours

games

me and my  play a quintet

A SIDE : WEATHERMAN BY SITE HOUND
{BABY COUSLAND - MUSIC & VOX FT SIM VIS - VOX}

B SIDE : HANDSOME HOOLIGAN BY SITE HOUND
{BABY COUSLAND - MUSIC & VOX FT SIM VIS - VOX & PAUL THOMSON - DRUMS}

WEATHERMAN / HANDSOME HOOLIGAN

Motion to the ocean (Bermondsey girls) w/ Cliché Toupée (13/03/25)

The Highwayman
BY ALFRED NOYES

They said no word to the landlord. They drank his ale instead.   
But they gagged his daughter, and bound her, to the foot of her narrow bed.
Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side!   
There was death at every window;
         And hell at one dark window;
For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride.

They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest.
They had bound a musket beside her, with the muzzle beneath her breast!
“Now, keep good watch!” and they kissed her. She heard the doomed man say—
Look for me by moonlight;
         Watch for me by moonlight;
I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!

She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good!
She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!   
They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years
Till, now, on the stroke of midnight,
         Cold, on the stroke of midnight,
The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!

The tip of one finger touched it. She strove no more for the rest.   
Up, she stood up to attention, with the muzzle beneath her breast.   
She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again;   
For the road lay bare in the moonlight;
         Blank and bare in the moonlight;
And the blood of her veins, in the moonlight, throbbed to her love’s refrain.

Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horsehoofs ringing clear;   
Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
The highwayman came riding—
         Riding—riding—
The red coats looked to their priming! She stood up, straight and still.

Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night!   
Nearer he came and nearer. Her face was like a light.
Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,   
Then her finger moved in the moonlight,
         Her musket shattered the moonlight,
Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him—with her death.

He turned. He spurred to the west; he did not know who stood   
Bowed, with her head o’er the musket, drenched with her own blood!   
Not till the dawn he heard it, and his face grew grey to hear   
How Bess, the landlord’s daughter,
         The landlord’s black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.

Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,
With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high.
Blood red were his spurs in the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat;
When they shot him down on the highway,
         Down like a dog on the highway,
And he lay in his blood on the highway, with a bunch of lace at his throat.

And still of a winter’s night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,   
When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,   
A highwayman comes riding—
         Riding—riding—
A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.

Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard.
He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred.   
He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there   
But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter,
         Bess, the landlord’s daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

(; go read the rest of the poem ;)

The HIGHwayMAN

Grizelda.

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