I am going back once more to what I call “gentle fiction”.
I am a slow thinker and go back again and again to the same thoughts: I must have been a ruminant in a previous life! When some people go straight to the heart of the matter, (no pun intended with this expression), I take circuitous routes and I meander around my topic, finding new issues, relationships and definitions.
I apologize towards some readers of this blog who are devoted readers of “gentle fiction”. I am not disparaging the books they love or the way they read them. I try to understand who reads what, how and why. With my sinuous mind, I shall come back to this topic and will refine my assumptions. No criticism is implied: only observation.
I still read blogs to which I have subscribed and belong to the same active reading groups, and I wonder how people can be so strongly engaged with their reading and with one or another writer whom I would consider – and whom I do consider – as secondary. I do not say negligible: no writer is truly and entirely negligible, but really secondary as object of attention. Writers who may be taken up when there is nothing better to read and who may be a hobby but not an absorbing one. And yet, they are absorbing for some.
This is worth pondering and this gives them an added value.
These writers are usually ladies – not women, ladies, according to the definition Marilyn French gave in her pioneer feminist book “The Women’s Room” -, lady novelists of the twentieth century read by ladies born during the twentieth century. The lady novelists are sometimes gentle women, both in the sense of belonging to the social middle class of gentlewomen and that of being gentle, that is understanding, compassionate, well behaved, moderate, mild – all qualities that are slightly evanescent and uneasily circumscribed. And mostly conservative. I am talking here again of lady writers such as DE Stevenson, Angela Thirkell, Margery Sharp, O Douglas, EM Delafield, Joyce Anstruther, Joyce Dennys or Susan Pleydell, for instance – these novelists who have been resurrected by Persephone Press, Greyladies, or smaller publishers.
Exceptions come later with Dora Saint and her “Miss Read” and “Thrush Green” series. There, there are schoolmistresses, depleted spinsters, widows living on a meagre stipend. But even if they seem timeless, they live in the 1950s or 1960s when the great mutation of the Western society has taken place and where women are allowed to work in some “gentle” jobs, and when impoverished gentlewomen live quite normally in cottages. Some of them are not even gentlewomen in the social sense of “middle class”. Miss Clare and Emily Davis in the “Miss Read” series have come from the lower class and have reached the status of schoolmistresses through work and merit. They are gentlewomen through their attitude towards life.
The lady readers are younger than the lady writers, born at least one generation after them. Therefore they have never been ladies of leisure but have almost always had a job or have raised their children, mostly without help. They are one cut down the social ladder. This may also be because of the changes that happened in society during the twentieth century. But they are gentle according to the second meaning of the word. They are well behaved, moderate, mild, kind although somewhat authoritative sometimes, understanding and compassionate. I tend to think they are conservative, politically or not.
Their faculty of “identification-quite-but-not-entirely” seems to be a major point. One can put on the shoes of the heroine – it is usually a heroine, not a hero, as main protagonist – but with a distance left between one’s own life and the heroine’s life. This is important.
Most of the time, a house plays an important part. Heroines may have to seek a job. Their lives will nevertheless revolve about the notion of home. In Angela Thirkell’s novels, no “heroine” is a woman. She is a lady and does not work but makes a home for the family, or will be engaged or married by the end of the book, raises her children, takes care of her husband, sometimes mildly flirts and belongs to community activities and committees. DE Stevenson’s protagonists are married or will marry and then leave their job if ever they have one, as do those of Margery Sharp’s or O Douglas’. The house and/or the estate that goes with it are seen through women’s eyes and not through those of men’s as in Trollope, where legal matters are expounded. Here, the relationship with the house is mostly emotional and calls sometimes, rather incredibly, upon the supernatural as in “Celia’s House” by DE Stevenson, or in “The Herb of Grace” by Elizabeth Goudge. Dora Saint’s Miss Clare lives in her parents’ cottage and keeps it immaculate.
One may see the continuity of the Victorian notions of “The Angel of the house” and of the importance of home, their taming and civilizing effects upon boys and men.
The women engaged with these books are usually home makers themselves. They have or had a job – a number of them are librarians or teachers -, they are married or single through widowhood, or divorced (there does not seem to be lots of “spinsters”: they have at the “worst” been partners) and they comment about cooking, gardening, knitting, ailing, sewing, reading, writing, travelling, reading.
|Even though there are lots of engagements, marriages, weddings, births and christenings in the novels, there must be no sex, and no allusion to sex in the novels. There is only romantic love or light flirting led through conversations with esprit.|
Readers are very careful about this aspect and firmly condemn all literature mentioning the unspeakable. One cannot say that it is a trait of the British prudishness and reserve. Indeed, readers are manifold and come first from the United States, then from Canada, some from Australia and New-Zealand, and of course from Britain. This adds sometimes to the distance between writer and reader. Distance in time and distance in geography. Both will often lead to a misunderstanding and a misconstruction of the novel that creates a total rewriting of the story in the readers’ minds.
And yet, they all insist on the feeling of reality given by the plots, characters and settings. Details – these novels are full of irrelevant details – are woven with the fabric of the readers’ lives. Which is unrealistic in the extreme as, for instance, life in the Midwest in the 1950s has nothing to do with life in the Highlands in the 1930s in middle to high-middle or low-upper classes. It is even more dissonant when it comes to life today in the United-States and life in the 1950s in gentle Britain.
Nevertheless the “near-identification” phenomenon is great. It allows a search in memories, a re-creation of the past both the dreamed past of an idyllic Britain that never was, and of a life or lives of real families and individuals.
This reading is legitimate. All readings are legitimate as long as they do not hurt the self and others. However, it is not far from the reading done by the heroine in “Angel” by Elizabeth Taylor – which may be dangerous. And it is certainly not the reading pioneered by references in such matters: Nicola Beauman, Nicola Humble and Alison Light. Moreover, fragile publishers may be deflected from their initial aim to reevaluate neglected fiction in order to enlarge the literary canon and our multicultural vision of fiction. They come to publish texts that had been left aside by some of these lady authors, under readers’ pressure when such texts would have been better left to academics for the purpose of research only. These texts sometimes called “left in the attic”, do more wrong than good to the writers whom they expose with all their flaws.The reality of such fiction is denied in the end of each novel (if not before the end) by a conscious twist made by the writer into fairy tale. There is no tragedy in these books. As said above, they almost always end with wedding bells or at least engagements or, less often, by birth or reconstitution of happy families. In this, they are conservative and ideal. They are the prolongation of fairy tales read without the benefit of subtexts created by gender studies or analysis, the prolongation of children books and mostly of girls books such as “The Chalet School”. They are a literature of comfort, escapism and reassurance. A number of readers insist on the fact that a “good book” makes good escape (from the tedium of everyday life or its complications?) with “a nice cup of tea”, “a chair”, and with “curtains drawn in winter”.
In fact, a balance should be found between the sophisticated and complex reading made by scholars – a lot might be written about this and its consequences – and the too candid reading for comfort. A balance is sometimes found. But so unfrequently. Between unconditional praise and unconditional denial, in media res stat vitus.
Source: Going North.
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Void in Art
Two blogs to which I have subscribed have taken up the theme “who am I?” and answers are given in poems in both:
My answer to such question is less poetic. But it is short.
I am nothing and no one
I am The Girls’ amanuensis
I am not a student anymore. I am not a daughter anymore. I am not a singer anymore. I am not much of a reader anymore. I am not a friend anymore. I am certainly no parent , no wife, no lover. I have no job. I have not much of a hobby. I am rather useless.
And this attempt to define myself brings me to the issue of solitude, loneliness.
In French, there is one word to say all shades of the word: solitude. In English, there is solitude, loneliness aloneness, lonesomeness; you may be alone, lonely, lonesome. In French, you are seul.
One may find solitude alluring. I have relished solitude years ago. To appreciate it, one must know noise, crowd, busyness to appreciate silence, being alone. Or one may be called to contemplation and know inner peace. This is the positive solitude as in the song composed by Purcell upon this poem:
O solitude, my sweetest choice:
Places devoted to the night,
Remote from tumult and from noise,
How ye my restless thoughts delight!
O solitude, my sweetest choice.
O heav’ns, what content is mine
To see these trees, which have appear’d
From the nativity of time,
And which all ages have rever’d,
To look today as fresh and green
As when their beauties first were seen.
O, how agreeable a sight
These hanging mountains do appear,
Which th’ unhappy would invite
To finish all their sorrows here,
When their hard fate makes them endure
Such woes as only death can cure.
O, how I solitude adore!
That element of noblest wit,
Where I have learnt Apollo’s lore,
Without the pains to study it.
For thy sake I in love am grown
With what thy fancy does pursue;
But when I think upon my own,
I hate it for that reason too,
Because it needs must hinder me
From seeing and from serving thee.
O solitude, O how I solitude adore!
Katherine Fowler Philips (1631 – 1664)
(sung by Alfred Deller)
And one may live solitude like a punishment or a curse, some kind of hell in the midst of noise, crowd, busyness that are uncongenial, or in the midst of nothingness. World without end.
Saturday is the day when I am happy to have you for coffee or tea and have a chat about the week. But today, if we had coffee or tea together, I would ask you to get on my magic carpet and to come with me to the Country of the Thousand and One Nights. We would then find ourselves in Karachi and meet again Hammad Rais our guide who invites us to discover his country, Pakistan.
Come: I see him. He is already smiling to us.
It’s me, Hammad Rais, your Touring Pakistan guide!
How are you doing and it’s been so wonderful to meet you again.
So where were we? Oh, yes! the tour!
Initially, I planned to give you a brief intro about my city, Karachi and then we would go on to see all 4 provinces, their cultures, traditions, notable places and much more. But Camille gave me another idea, which was great. She asked how about I show the readers (that is you!) about the way of Pakistani life, or more precisely, the life in Karachi. The climate we have here, what I eat, what age I started school, the cultures we love, the traditions we follow, what’s my mother tongue and many things alike.
A view of my neighborhood, from the 6th floor of a nearby apartment
It was a good suggestion but to be honest with you, it made a wonder how in the world will I give you a glimpse in my way of life, which is by the way pretty simple, as per Pakistani standards. I wondered what image will it create on your mind about me or my fellow countrymen. But if there is another image, as I talked about it in the previous episode, then there is a big need to wipe it off from your mind.
Yup, it’s a traffic jam and they happen daily!
So, it’s a good idea to let the world know and understand that Pakistani’s are just like every other human being living on this planet. We live in a house, we have families, we eat, we celebrate, we play, we work, we cry, we smile, we do all those things that you, your family, your friends or your co-workers do everyday. There is no difference!
So, with this in mind, I decided to work upon it. Since you have already landed in my city and I’m your guide (thank you, Camille! for appointing me up for this task), what would be more great than showing you a slice of my life. About how I live and what my days are like, what I do, what I see everyday, what I eat in lunch or dinner and many more things.
Selling fruits at night, a common sight
As I told you I live Karachi, the biggest city of Pakistan. All traditions associated with any other big city in the world are also the same in Karachi. Life is fast and time is short, is the motto here. Although, I don’t like this fast and furious approach.
Anyway, beside being Pakistan’s largest city, Karachi is also the provincial capital of Sindh province. There are 3 other provinces in Pakistan:
- Balochistan (provincial capital Quetta)
- Khyber Pakhtunkhwa (provincial capital Peshawar)
- Punjab (provincial capital Lahore)
Islamabad is Pakistan’s capital city and is located in Punjab. Beside capital cities, there are so many other cities in all 4 provinces, along with districts, tehsils and union councils.
So, a little more about myself. Here in Pakistan, many families live jointly. My home was built by my grand father and I still live there with my parents, my wife, my son, my two little brothers, one of whom is married and have 3 kids. My mother’s sister, who is unmarried, also live with us. All other homes in my neighborhood are like, where children still live with their parents. The tradition of living by yourself once you pass college or get a job is gaining foot here too but I don’t like it. People always say do something about your future, save some money, invest somewhere, do this or do that. I regard myself as my parents future, as they once dreamed about me standing on a level where they would be proud of me. Now, when I’m standing there, why can’t my parents be with me?
We regard the presence of our elders inside the home as a blessing and taking care of them makes our day. Beside, who wouldn’t love to see their grand children growing up in front of them, taking care of them, playing with them. Since 2011, my home is not the same anymore as 3 fully charged up kids play, fight, cry and laugh together, filling my home with life.
In general, life in Karachi is different from what you may see in a village or in those parts of Pakistan where farmers live and produce crops. I haven’t been to a village but life there is simple, quiet and full of nature. A friend of mine was born in a village and didn’t stepped in a big city until he was in his mid 20’s. He now lives in Karachi but occasionally visit his hometown. He tells me about how villagers go to sleep right after sunset and get up way before even sunrise. That there is no fast food joint or cinema in his village and day to day traveling is still done on carts. Life is still simple in those parts of Pakistan and from what he tells me about it, I then compare those things with Karachi, which is totally different from so many aspects.
Yes, we do get up in morning early but on weekends, we may not. The city is literally over flooded with fast food restaurants and cafes. People love to eat here and it is consider as “the cool” to try out that newly opened restaurant or watching a new movie. There are many food streets in Karachi. In fact, any place where three or more restaurants are located next to each other, is a food street. Its where you can load your taste buds with all sorts of food.
And speaking of food, I may have to create and maintain a separate blog just for what kind of food you will find in Pakistan. Literally!
Over here, we love to mix up dishes and create diversity on our dining tables. I start with the one item which is must for every meal, for everyone, in every home, every day. You can find this in every corner of Pakistan and it is known as Roti.
Breakfast, lunch, dinner, these are incomplete without Roti. Heck, I even ate it regularly back in my school days as an evening snack with a cup of tea. I even love to eat mango with Roti in summer, would you believe that?
Roti is prepared by stone-ground wholemeal flour, which is commonly known as Atta Flour here. We eat it with either meat gravies of many kinds, fried or cooked up vegetables of various varieties, kebabs, boiled pulses and so much more. You can even eat with either butter, cheese, yogurt, and anything you like.
There are so many varieties of Roti and each one has its own unique taste. With various cooking methods, Roti is definitely an inseparable item from a Pakistani dining table. Everyday in my home, it is prepared twice; for lunch and for dinner. The picture you have seen above is the most common form and it is prepare in every household. Let me show you some other varieties which are mainly served on special occasions like weddings, parties at home or anywhere else:
There are many more varieties of Roti beside these. You can even stuff it with either fine chopped meat or mashed vegetables. My mother-in-law prepares Paratha filled with mashed potatoes and it is served with green chili sauce. So mouth watering!
Roti and all of its varieties are eaten with either meat or vegetable dishes mostly. You can even eat it plain and simple if you want to. Below you can see some common Pakistani dishes which are served with Roti. Again, these dishes also have various varieties for themselves and each one has it’s own unique taste.
(Bonus: click here for a great recipe of Chicken Kebab I found at a fellow Pakistani blogger. Try it out!!)
There are countless other dishes which are these common ones. There are various methods of preparing each one of them and almost every family has its own secret way of cooking these dishes. My mother and all my aunts learned cooking from my grandmother, who was such a great cooking expert herself. Beside cooking, my grandmother knew so much about how to keep a household in order and she passed that knowledge to her daughters very well. I remember how she used to prepare special dishes for me whenever there is something on a day’s menu I don’t wanted to eat. I was her first grandchild, so I was treated very specially :).
On Sundays, Jia, my wife, might prepare Biryani only. Like last week, when my sister arrived showed up, Jia prepared Chicken Manchurian with Chinese Rice and it was loved by all. Jia is expert in preparing rice dishes, an art she had learned from her mother, who is herself an expert.
So from Roti, we move towards Biryani, a spicy rice dish in many forms, which is prepared with all sort of spices, vegetables and meat. Like Roti, there are so many forms of Biryani also. If beef is used, then its Beef Biryani, if vegetables are used, then its Vegetable Biryani and so much more.
A Pakistani woman will be crowned as an expert cook, by her family, if she can master this cuisine’s art as this dish is so much love by every family member and it is very hard to resist.
We Pakistani love to eat spicy food, as know you have some idea. We want spices to dive deep in our taste buds and tickle us all they way. There are many forms of spices which are commonly used in daily cooking. Usage of home made spices are also very common and every family has its own secret. This gives every common dish a unique flavor. We also love to spice up our lunch and dinner with pickles, chutney, sauces of various kinds.
In the appetizer section, there are so many to chose from. From spicy to sweet and sour, the list goes on and on. They are also served as an evening snack or when guests shows up. Some of the most common are:
Here in Pakistan, cooking is considered as an essential art which every woman must master. I can give example of my sister, who before her marriage, only knew how to prepare breakfast for herself. Those Western norms of working women are also gaining foot here but still a Pakistani woman show her best talent in her kitchen. Because receiving an appreciation from family over a well cooked food is something special and it is regarded as a great accomplishment. As an old saying goes: the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, so a Pakistani woman knows it very well and she loves to keep her man happy.
Now if you are thinking that Pakistanis only eat spicy food and there is no sweetness in their lives, then allow me to say this: You are so wrong!
To get a taste of our sweetness and much more, we will meet again. Until then, take care and bon appetit.
Oops! Almost forgot!
Until next time….
I am late, I am late, I am late… I am like the White Rabbit in Alice in Wonderland. I am late in blogging and posting. I was not well yesterday and the day before yesterday. Today was another day with the Shopping-cum-Cleaning Lady. She went out with The Girls who do appreciate her very much and for whom it excellent to be without me sometimes. They chose magazines – one each – and spent time there. I had to tell the Lady beforehand that reading was VERY important for The Little Family, and that The Girls needed time to find what suited them. We had made a list of topics in which they were interested and I explained all this to the Lady.
Now that they know each others, I had made a list of toiletries to buy as well – and toiletries are always an intimate thing. They were to stop at the GP’s to make an appointment for me. And to buy a toaster as ours died last week. I read my emails and blogs while they were away. When they came back, I made tea for everybody: scented tea or herbal tea for The Girls, English tea for the Lady and myself. And I explained the tea, where from it was coming, how I was making it, etc. We discussed the Lady’s hours. I offered that she comes earlier on Mondays so that she is able to fetch her daughter at the end of high school hours, some fifteeen or twenty kilomètres from here, and do her own shopping. She told me about her life, her sister, her husband, her children, illnesses and deaths in her family, some of her difficulties and some of her joys. Then she collected herself, and said: “But I am here to help you! Not to tell you about my own life! I should be listening to you!” I laughed and said we were to help each others.
She stayed almost an hour. She seemed comfortable. She is comfortable with The Girls and The Girls are comfortable with her.
I expect it may be the same with your children and grand-children (and I would be glad to have your opinion): it is difficult “to let go” the persons you love and who depend upon you. Not that I am unhappy to see The Girls hurrying on Mondays and Thursdays to be on time when the Lady arrives, but they were doing these things with me before, and now they do them with someone else.
At the same time, I was slightly worried about the Lady herself. Would she be the right person? Would she be nice to The Girls? Would she understand them and their needs? Would she be patient? Would she understand that very secondary things like the yellow underliner and the TV programme magazine are more important than a second piece of cheese or lovely apples for me? Could she understand all this and take initiatives when needed?
It seems to work well. She did my shopping with discernment, but listened to me about the magazines and reading and writing material. They spent plenty of time in the little library aisle, and The Girls came back with magazines about geography and history, related to TV programmes we have watched and commented together. The Lady was surprised but The Girls explained our king Henri III (the end of the 16th century) and the Savoie and the Alps (new or “young” mountains when the Massif Central, closer to us, is “old”).
I understand it is difficult to know the intellectual level of The Girls. For some things their level is far higher than that of the Lady; for other things, they are entirely dependent. I feared this discrepancy in their relationship: the Cleaning Ladies who went before did not stay long as they thought The Girls were morons and what was the need to know about Louis XIV and the geography of Venice?
So, now, The Girls are happily chirping to themselves in their rooms; the Lady is gone after a nice cup of tea and a chat; my shopping is done for this end of week and almost all next; the menus are made and the TV programme as well; I shall have to cook dinner; and you know more about The Little Family and the difficulties and joy of life with people with Down Syndrome.
Do not think I am sacrificing my whole life! Look what we are going to watch tonight on TV:
My choice! Three episodes at least. I think it will be too late and I shall go to bed earlier… And this is more history to explain although I am already told that Henry VIII was not someone very pleasant… I guess, nevertheless, that, he will not play the Red Queen with me and will not say: “Off with her head!”, even if I was late in writing to you!
Thank you for reading.
And I cannot leave you without a whiff of my indoors flowers!
Very, very short blog, today. It is almost dinner time and potatoes are made to boil to make a salad with tomatoes (for a dash of colour, not for taste) and tuna fish, and pickles or mustard. I shall see. I must not be late as there is a film that must be seen on TV – earmarked by The Girls. I shall watch things that I like at the end of the week, even if they are a bit lost. The French TV is broadcasting “Wolf Hall” and “At Selfridge’s”. I have already told The Girls that “Wolf Hall” was related to the English King Henry VIII (and they don’t like im because “he kills all his wives”), and that “At Selfridge’s” was the creation of the grands magasins, like Le Bon Marché in Paris. That was understood and appreciated as Le Bon Marché is one of their favourite shops, and they know that it has been created during the 19th century, and therefore expect lovely costumes in the series.
The week has started with the central heating not working again when I first awoke in the early morning. I went down into the bowels of the house again to meet The Beast. I clanged, coaxed, acted more brutally, pushed buttons, thew my foot in the door (which action hurt my foot but did nothing to The Beast) and finally, it mysteriously started again. When The Girls awoke in turn (very, very late because they had made a binge of “Miss Fisher” episodes on TV yesternight), it was warm again. That was fortunate as it has been raining all day. As temperatures have been turning to cold, rain was part sleet and snow. Very unpleasant.
We shall see the plumber soon again as the water heating system is slowly flooding the basement. I hope he will come soon otherwise we shall have to paddle to reach the car! Rain outside, water inside: this is worse than Noah’s Ark!
According to our new routine, the Shopping Lady came to fetch The Girls to take them shopping at The Supermarket and the Newsagent’s. She was early and we were still having lunch. Therefore she sat down and we had a talk about her cap as Cleaning Lady on Thursdays. We arrived at a very satisfactory arrangement for all, and The Girls were ready to go in a jiffy.
Since then I have been busy in this barn of a house and the afternoon went by too quickly. I am glad that the bulbs are blossoming the ones after the others as I planted them so that there are always flowers in the sitting room. I like the waxy texture of the hyacinths and their scent, fresh and pungent at the same time. Their decaying smell is so sweet: it is an adieu that keeps being a long farewell. I am always at a loss to choose between the pink, the blue and the white ones. They are the flowers I like best even if they are no heralds of spring but true winter daughters. They will be planted later in the flower garden and will slowly turn back to wild. Another charm for another year.
I am still reading slowly books about Girls Novels in America and in the British Empire and comparing them mentally with their French counterparts, in the 19th century. It makes me understand better the novels by Edith Wharton, Henry James, or Frances Compton Burnett about young Amrican ladies marrying into the British aristocracy. Or the development of the novel for adults in the United States and The United Kingdom and the ex-dominions. I shall need to take a deep breath and to plunge inside this literature.
And I was reading two blogs abut “Litlle Women” and “The Custom of the Country”, which are but the top of the iceberg. Here are the links: http://katemacdonald.net/2016/01/11/working-is-good-for-you-louisa-may-alcotts-an-old-fashioned-girl/ and http://katemacdonald.net/2016/01/18/edith-wharton-and-the-custom-of-the-country/.
More to come. I have to put all this in a semblance of order!
And now, to dinner and to TV with The Girls. The Little Family is really hibernating and living a very unsensational life. Very much like The Provincial Lady!
- Démons et merveilles
- Vents et marées
- Au loin déjà la mer s’est retirée
- Démons et merveilles
- Vents et marées
- Et toi
- Comme une algue doucement caressée par le vent
- Dans les sables du lit tu remues en rêvant
- Démons et merveilles
- Vents et marées
- Au loin déjà la mer s’est retirée
- Mais dans tes yeux entrouverts
- Deux petites vagues sont restées
- Démons et merveilles
- Vents et marées
- Deux petites vagues pour me noyer.
We are going on with our journey through Jacques Prévert poetry and his best loved book “Paroles” (“Words” or “Lyrics”). Most of these poems have been turned into songs or have been written to be songs, as this poem, which was written for the movie “Les Visiteurs du Soir”, released in 1942, in occupied France. It was directed by Marcel Carné, best remembered for another film, “Les Enfants du Paradis”. (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Les_Visiteurs_du_Soir).
- This is the song in the film
and this is the song as I first heard it as a child, sung by Cora Vaucaire
And here is how it might be translated in English
Demons and marvels
Winds and tides
Far away already the sea has gone out
Like seaweed gently caressed by the wind
In the sands of sleep you stir dreaming
Demons and marvels
Winds and tides
Far away already the sea has gone out
But in your half-open eyes
Two little waves remain
Demons and marvels
Winds and tide
Two little waves to drown myself in.