Secret Garden - Nocturne

Clar sax perc

Flutes

trumpets / tv one

T bones and tenors

Double reeds perc tv one

battle hymn

A dark, cynical twist on “Old MacDonald:" A family farm dying under corporate takeover and greed. Minor-key Americana with a bleak chant hook.
Drop the timestamp of the line that hit you hardest.

Old MacDonald

Die son skyn sagies en skitter teen jou lyf
Waar jy so soetjies lê en my teen die mure uitdryf
Maar ek ken niemand beter, niemand beter wil ek ken
Want jy't my uitgelok en jy't my vasgepen

La la la, hierdie lied is net vir jou
En die somer son skyn wat ons kom trou
En my woorde raak my rede wat alles wil behou
En my rede raak my soektog en my soektog lei my na jou

Maar ek vra maar nie jou naam nie want ek is veels te skaam
En daar is nie 'n raam nie wat jou skoonheid ooit kon dra
Maar ek weet waar jy vandaan is, dis alles deurmekaar
Wat ons bly anoniem, maar in drome ken ons mekaar

La la la, hierdie lied is net vir jou
En die somer son skyn wat ons kom trou
En my woorde raak my rede wat alles wil behou
En my rede raak my soektog en my soektog lei my na jou

Die nadroom word gevolg oor blinde berg en dal
Net vir my om stukend weer by jou voete neer te val
Maar ons vra maar nie die vrae nie want die antwoord kan nie verlos nie
En verlossing is gevraagd want dit kan jou jou vryheid kos

La la la, hierdie lied is net vir jou
En die somer son skyn wat ons kom trou
En my woorde raak my rede wat alles wil behou
En my rede raak my soektog en my soektog lei my na jou

Skemer

"RUN"

Old English:

Hors on heora stofol licgað,
Būtan lēohte to līhtan heora weg,
Þystro is, and mǣst is behȳded
Fram heora bellgum and midden.

Þonne sē morgen cymeþ, þonne
Hīe ēode, to bēon gewācne of morgen,
And on þǣm mægencræfte, hīe sind gecīged
To dōn heora hǣsum, swā cildru.

Se hlāford cymeþ, mid his swipe,
Ond mid clǣme, hē hit dyde snappan,
Þā horsa cumeþ tō andgitte,
And hērfor cymeþ sēo mǣden.

Hē sett þone sadol on þā mīere,
Ond sēo hlǣfdige stīhþ hēr þǣr,
Swā se hlāford hēo upahof þǣr,
Mid oferfylcum gife swǣr.

Hēo stōd wlanc ofer þone hengest
Swā hēo rād weg fram him,
Intō micelre weoruldlican gefeohte,
Mægenlic wīf-hilderinc.

Se hlāford wiste þæt hēo sceolde
Wesan gearu tō gefeohte, on his bedde.
Swā hēo rād weg, hē cwæþ:
Nān ōþer, oþ þæt ic bēo dēad.


modern English translation:

Horses lie on their platform,
Without light to illuminate their way,
Darkness is, and much is hidden,
From their bellies and their midst.

When the morning comes, then
They go, to be awake in the morning,
And with the strength, they are called,
To do their chores, like children.

The master comes, with his whip,
And with a crack, he makes it snap,
The horses come to attention,
And here comes the maiden.

He puts the saddle on the mare,
And the lady mounts her there,
As the master hoists her up there,
With exceeding profound care.

She stood handsome upon the horse,
As she rode away from him,
Into a great worldly battle,
A mighty warrioress.

The master knew that she would,
Be fit for battle, in his bed,
As she rode away, he said,
"Not another, until I'm dead."

My Kingdom for a Horse

Professional software developer. Amateur composer, photographer, chef. (Note I am not the other Geoffrey Falk in Toronto who writes music. That's Geoffrey David Falk, who often goes by just "Geoffrey Falk.")

Old MacDonald

Geoffrey Trueman Falk

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