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ESO ES TODO
Eso es todo: horas que se escaparán
y tú con ellas, sin saber adónde van;
tu corazón es como un reloj de cuerda:
se cansa pero va tirando, y eso ya es bastante.
Y total, me podría enamorar
de una cara de esas cualquiera
en el tren por una eternidad
o hasta la próxima parada.
Como una hoja que va con la lluvia,
al trabajo con la misma gabardina;
buscas respuestas en tu walkman
o quizás algo más provisional.
Y total...
Esas cosas no se saben: sólo pasan
o no pasan, eso es todo; luego duran
o no duran; luego duelen o no duelen,
y se olvidan, o se aprende a olvidar...
y eso ya es bastante.
Eso es todo: no importa. Vivirás.
Quizá incluso vuelvas a por más.
Esperando otra partida, ya no queda
nada que no hayas perdido:
el sueño del joven artista,
el sueño de ese niño que imagina
ser adulto. No sabe que le espera
el sueño del amor.
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2. |
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SEPTEMBER
I tip-toe like a kitten,
my heart is smitten
with all the things we did today
and
slowly my feet over the carpet,
red as wine,
in the cover of dark
gently approach, then I stop
and one hand slides...
under the covers, making a narrow burrow
for my very weary bones
if
the night is high and all so still,
september's here and with it so very many things
to do and plan and get on with.
And the light lingers longer for now.
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3. |
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ONE LONG WINTER
Get up and fix breakfast.
Coffee and toast. Wash up.
Outside's still dark outside, as you dress up.
Go downstairs. Check mail-box.
Buy bread, milk, something to eat.
Back home, read a little and write.
Listen to some record.
Peel carrots, cream them and make soup.
Warm up some left over coffee.
Snack on a biscuit.
Wash dishes and do write.
Potter around the house.
TV on. Eat something.
TV off. Tidy up. Wash up.
Feed your pipe and have a smoke...
mmm, that’s nice! Then put your feet up.
Feeling inspired you write something.
It's such a brilliant thought,
and you let it hang.
as you snuggle up on the sofa
and you drift off,
you drift off in sleep as you wait for
that call that will bring you your lucky break.
You just need your ONE call
to make your DREAM come true.
Is it ringing at ALL? Is it ringing just NOW?
Is it ringing for me? Is it ringing for you?
Wake up in the sofa,
freezing and feeling flat,
look out the window: it's so dark.
Stare at the ceiling,
and try to gather in
those thoughts and ideas that you had.
Get up and change the album:
on the turntable, Marc Almond.
It's all too late to go anywhere,
it's cold outside, and you
try calling a friend but
they're not home, they don't pick
it's too late anyhow,
and there's nowhere to go
and you no longer expect naught,
and so, nothing happens.
One more day has gone by
in this longer winter of yours
as you wait for that call that
never arrives, or it's never for you,
oh that call! there's no knock on the door
and you no longer know whether
is it ringing for me? is it ringing for you?
is it ringing at all? is it ringing just now?
is it ringing for them? is it ringing for me? is it ringing for you?
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4. |
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SONG AND VISION
Once upon a time I looked at myself in a mirror. I didn't like what I saw, so I wrote a new persona that I could wear with pride, with love, with music, and laughter, and then I looked again: it was alright (it wasn't great), it was alright: I was then ready to share my vision.
I read the books, I listened to the words that mattered, I watched the films, I lived hand to mouth: I didn't like it, but then I had the experience, the songs, the stories; they were just waiting for the right beats, for the rights sounds: they came along, and then perhaps a melody. I took good note of all those things.
Just an idea, just an emotion: a phrase, a turn of phrase, a clear devotion, a story that you heard on the cue of the supermarket - or you just made it up - who knows?, or 50/50. It doesn't matter.
Automatic writing. Automatic silence. A bit of this, a bit of that. A pinch of salt, an antidote to so much crap.
One never wins or loses: one only keeps a record of daily events, and then you sing them to yourself and live and love, and keep on singing, and put together your song: electro-acoustica, vernacular. Chanson electroacoustique vernaculaire. Canción electroacústica vernácula.
Sing your life: others have done it before you but no one at all will do it for you. Why don't you? Why don't you? You don't know what you're singing, but you know that no one can ever do it like only you can. You just don't hear those words at school or at the office, at college or at the workshop. You just don't hear those words on the telly or on your gizmo feeds, and so you sing them out: you chance it, you fuck it, but then you sing it, and then you chance it, again, and then you fuck it, again, and then you chance it, and love it: before you know it, you got the words, there is no stopping: it only takes two words, one rhyme, and that's it, that's it, this is your song: electro-acoustica, vernacular. Chanson electroacoustique vernaculaire. Canción electroacústica vernácula.
Let there be sound, and let there be vision. Let there be change, and revolution in your song.
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5. |
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MORNO YOGA
move the world around with your breath
and then...
go,
launch,
dive,
breath out,
come to stand like a mountain,
open the soles of your feet to the earth
and your crown to the sky,
inhale and sweep your arms overhead,
as your fingertips touch
and you exhale down your palms into namasté...
Oh oh oh oh
Oh oh oh oh
move the world around in your head,
move you mind around with your breath,
the arms are now an extension of your heart
as they sweep wide, and you exhale back into the heart space,
you inhale and exhale: first inhale, then exhale again into namasté
and you bow to the earth and fold stepping back into warrior launch,
and
stepping back - and down -
you breath the palms up to the sky.
and bow to the earth, as you open the heart
and embrace the day...
Oh oh - Oh oh
Oh oh - Oh oh
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6. |
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MELANCHOLY LOVERS
I met you by the harbour
when the sun begins to face.
We're like the kookaburra
but we sing like the nightingale.
And then we read the inscriptions
in the tombstones late a night.
They're like a premonition
of what was, and will come to pass
cause we are melancholy lovers, melancholy friends.
We studied all the science:
we have only ten years to go.
If Bowie was the prophet
our garden is an Eden of glow.
We plant and feed the flowers
for desire that blooms and flows.
Let's go and have a party
and love, love before we burn
cause we are melancholy lovers, melancholy friends,
melancholy lovers and rowers, and writers wearing very big pullovers.
Melancholy lovers, melancholy friends.
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7. |
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PURSUIT
Com la queixa d'un amant,
com la mà d'algú tot sol al carrer que recull monedes.
Com el tren sobre la via,
com la falç sobre l'espiga, el martell al clau, o la pinta als cabells cada dia.
Com la fletxa sobre l'aire,
com l'esponja tota xopa d'aigua bruta a la pica,
seguiré cada passa,
desvetllaré totes les ombres:
t'he de trobar a tu.
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8. |
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GREATER BEAUTY
Open your eyes.
Listen to different folks.
Put your hands at play
if you feel like work.
Listen closely
with an open soul,
and lend your ear to stories
that were seldom told.
Be here and now with those around you
for they are with you too.
Give voice to their tales
so they keep you company in your solitude.
Open your eyes.
Listen to different folks.
Put your hands at play
with love and with joy.
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A song, like a flower, can come in all shapes, colours, and scents.
Sanfeliu 's debut album F l o r e s - C o l o r e s brings you a bouquet of eight such sonic flowers, for your pleasure and delight. Grown in the rich soil of Sanfeliu 's melodic invention and sung in English, Catalan and Spanish, these songs merge the confessional and the testimonial, the intimate and the collective, the personal and the political, and translate their intimate story-telling into richly textured vocals, piano, and analog electronics.