Outside on the wide meadows, in the fields of young dreams
Soon the foggy sun will rise from its slumber
Morning dew in those times tastes like tears made from aniseed,
The one who cries knows that he won't live to see his yesterday again

Black Hill and Silent Island - The gathering of deer

The gift of keep: Be it things, people or memories - you will never lose anything again.

Trouvere Medieval Minstrels - Douce Dame Jolie

Apparently I added this to a playlist of mine on may 26th, 2022, but I have no memory of it. I thought I only knew the covers by Annwn and by Munir Beken and August Denhard. I can't believe I knew this and totally forgot about it, it's really so beautiful. But anyways, enough of thaat. Enjoy the song. Oh and doesn't it sound like Vàli a little?

Happy as Lazzaro, 2018, dir. Alice Rohrwacher

The music is leaving, close the door!

Giacomo Leopardi - Brutus the Younger

O foolish virtue, empty mists,

The realms of shadows, are thy schools,

And at thy heels repentance follows fast.

To you, ye marble gods

(If ye in Phlegethon reside, or dwell

Above the clouds), a mockery and scorn

Is the unhappy race,

Of whom you temples ask,

And fraudulent the law that you impose.

Say, then, does earthly piety provoke

The anger of the gods?

O Jove, dost thou protect the impious?

And when the storm-cloud rushes through the air,

And thou thy thunderbolts dost aim,

Against the just dost thou impel the sacred flame?

Unconquered Fate and stern necessity

Oppress the feeble slaves of Death:

Unable to avert their injuries,

The common herd endure them patiently.

But is the ill less hard to bear,

Because it has no remedy?

Does he who knows no hope no sorrow feel?

The hero wages war with thee,

Eternal deadly war, ungracious Fate,

And knows not how to yield; and thy right hand,

Imperious, proudly shaking off,

E'en when it weighs upon him most,

Though conquered, is triumphant still,

When his sharp sword inflicts the fatal blow;

And seeks with haughty smile the shades below.

Who storms the gates of Tartarus,

Offends the gods.

Such valor does not suit, forsooth,

Their soft, eternal bosoms; no?

Or are our toils and miseries,

And all the anguish of our hearts,

A pleasant sport, their leisure to beguile?

Yet no such life of crime and wretchedness,

But pure and free as her own woods and fields,

Nature to us prescribed; a queen

And goddess once. Since impious custom, now,

Her happy realm hath scattered to the winds,

And other laws on this poor life imposed,

Will Nature of fool-hardiness accuse

The manly souls, who such a life refuse?

Of crime, and their own sufferings ignorant,

Serene old age the beasts conducts

Unto the death they ne'er foresee.

But if, by misery impelled, they sought

To dash their heads against the rugged tree,

Or, plunging headlong from the lofty rock,

Their limbs to scatter to the winds.

No law mysterious, misconception dark,

Would the sad wish refuse to grant.

Of all that breathe the breath of life,

You, only, children of Prometheus, feel

That life a burden hard to bear;

Yet, would you seek the silent shores of death,

If sluggish fate the boon delay,

To you, alone, stern Jove forbids the way.

And thou, white moon, art rising from the sea,

That with our blood is stained;

The troubled night dost thou survey,

And field, so fatal unto Italy.

On brothers' breasts the conqueror treads;

The hills with fear are thrilled;

From her proud heights Rome totters to her fall.

And smilest thou upon the dismal scene?

Lavinia's children from their birth,

And all their prosperous years,

And well-earned laurels, hast thou seen;

And thou wilt smile, with ray unchanged,

Upon the Alps, when, bowed with grief and shame,

The haughty city, desolate and lone,

Beneath the tread of Gothic hordes shall groan.

Behold, amid the naked rocks,

Or on the verdant bough, the beast and bird,

Whose breasts are ne'er by thought or memory stirred,

Of the vast ruin take no heed,

Or of the altered fortunes of the world;

And when the humble herdsman's cot

Is tinted with the earliest rays of dawn,

The one will wake the valleys with his song,

The other, o'er the cliffs, the frightened throng

Of smaller beasts before him drive.

O foolish race! Most wretched we, of all!

Nor are these blood-stained fields,

These caverns, that our groans have heard,

Regardful of our misery;

Nor shines one star less brightly in the sky.

Not the deaf kings of heaven or hell,

Or the unworthy earth,

Or night, do I in death invoke,

Or thee, last gleam the dying hour that cheers,

The voice of coming ages. I no tomb

Desire, to be with sobs disturbed, or with

The words and gifts of wretched fools adorned.

The times grow worse and worse;

And who, unto a vile posterity,

The honor of great souls would trust,

Or fit atonement for their wrongs?

Then let the birds of prey around me wheel:

And let my wretched corpse

The lightning blast, the wild beast tear;

And let my name and memory melt in air!

Giacomo Leopardi

Eclogues by Virgil.

there was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,
the earth, and every common sight,
to me did seem
apparelled in celestial light,
the glory and the freshness of a dream.
it is not now as it hath been of yore;—
turn wheresoe'er i may,
by night or day.
the things which i have seen i now can see no more.

that.

and this would be the perfect last post lol

Dornenreich - Reime faucht der Märchensarg

(26.01.2013 Leipzig)

Millions of people sink dramatically into the dust, then we could come close to the Dionysian. Now is the slave a free man, now all the stiff, hostile barriers break apart, those things which necessity and arbitrary power or “saucy fashion” have established between men. Now, with the gospel of world harmony, every man feels himself not only united with his neighbour, reconciled and fused together, but also as if the veil of Maja has been ripped apart, with only scraps fluttering around before the mysterious original unity. Singing and dancing, man expresses himself as a member of a higher unity. He has forgotten how to walk and talk and is on the verge of flying up into the air as he dances. The enchantment speaks out in his gestures. Just as the animals speak and the earth gives milk and honey, so now something supernatural echoes out of him. He feels himself a god. He now moves in a lofty ecstasy, as he saw the gods move in his dream. The man is no longer an artist. He has become a work of art. The artistic power of all of nature, the rhapsodic satisfaction of the primordial unity, reveals itself here in the intoxicated performance. The finest clay, the most expensive marble—man—is here worked and chiseled, and the cry of the Eleusianian mysteries rings out to the chisel blows of the Dionysian world artist: “Do you fall down, you millions? World, do you have a sense of your creator?” 

Nietzsche - Birth of Tragedy

Must it ever be thus, — that the source of our happiness must also be the fountain of our misery? The full and ardent sentiment which animated my heart with the love of nature, overwhelming me with a torrent of delight, and which brought all paradise before me, has now become an insupportable torment, a demon which perpetually pursues and harasses me. When in bygone days I gazed from these rocks upon yonder mountains across the river, and upon the green, flowery valley before me, and saw alI nature budding and bursting around; the hills clothed from foot to peak with tall, thick forest trees; the valleys in all their varied windings, shaded with the loveliest woods; and the soft river gliding along amongst the lisping reeds, mirroring the beautiful clouds which the soft evening breeze wafted across the sky, — when I heard the groves about me melodious with the music of birds, and saw the million swarms of insects dancing in the last golden beams of the sun, whose setting rays awoke the humming beetles from their grassy beds, whilst the subdued tumult around directed my attention to the ground, and I there observed the arid rock compelled to yield nutriment to the dry moss, whilst the heath flourished upon the barren sands below me, all this displayed to me the inner warmth which animates all nature, and filled and glowed within my heart. I felt myself exalted by this overflowing fulness to the perception of the Godhead, and the glorious forms of an infinite universe became visible to my soul! Stupendous mountains encompassed me, abysses yawned at my feet, and cataracts fell headlong down before me; impetuous rivers rolled through the plain, and rocks and mountains resounded from afar. In the depths of the earth I saw innumerable powers in motion, and multiplying to infinity; whilst upon its surface, and beneath the heavens, there teemed ten thousand varieties of living creatures. Everything around is alive with an infinite number of forms; while mankind fly for security to their petty houses, from the shelter of which they rule in their imaginations over the wide-extended universe. Poor fool! in whose petty estimation all things are little. From the inaccessible mountains, across the desert which no mortal foot has trod, far as the confines of the unknown ocean, breathes the spirit of the eternal Creator; and every atom to which he has given existence finds favour in his sight. Ah, how often at that time has the flight of a bird, soaring above my head, inspired me with the desire of being transported to the shores of the immeasurable waters, there to quaff the pleasures of life from the foaming goblet of the Infinite, and to partake, if but for a moment even, with the confined powers of my soul, the beatitude of that Creator who accomplishes all things in himself, and through himself!

My dear friend, the bare recollection of those hours still consoles me. Even this effort to recall those ineffable sensations, and give them utterance, exalts my soul above itself, and makes me doubly feel the intensity of my present anguish.

It is as if a curtain had been drawn from before my eyes, and, instead of prospects of eternal life, the abyss of an ever open grave yawned before me. Can we say of anything that it exists when all passes away, when time, with the speed of a storm, carries all things onward, — and our transitory existence, hurried along by the torrent, is either swallowed up by the waves or dashed against the rocks? There is not a moment but preys upon you, — and upon all around you, not a moment in which you do not yourself become a destroyer. The most innocent walk deprives of life thousands of poor insects: one step destroys the fabric of the industrious ant, and converts a little world into chaos. No: it is not the great and rare calamities of the world, the floods which sweep away whole villages, the earthquakes which swallow up our towns, that affect me. My heart is wasted by the thought of that destructive power which lies concealed in every part of universal nature. Nature has formed nothing that does not consume itself, and every object near it: so that, surrounded by earth and air, and all the active powers, I wander on my way with aching heart; and the universe is to me a fearful monster, for ever devouring its own offspring.

Goethe

All the rivers run into the sea; yet the sea is not full; unto the place from whence the rivers come, thither they return again.
All things are full of labour; man cannot utter it: the eye is not satisfied with seeing, nor the ear filled with hearing.

Ecclesiastes 1:7-8