ANNO MUNDI

ANNO MUNDI

Can you see me, are you near me?
Can you hear me crying out for life?
Can you tell me, where's the glory?
Ride the days and sail the nights
When it's over you'll find the answer
Running in the whispering rain
Anno Mundi? Can you wonder!
Truth or thunder, life or blame

Do you see a vision of a perfect place?
Does it make you laugh, put a smile on your face?
Do you need a mirror, do you see it well?
Does the hand of God still toll the bell?
There are people laughing
They're all laughing at you
If only they could see what you're saying is true
Still generals fighting, making war on the world
Don't they know, don't they know?
No, no, no


The wind in the night blows cold
Your eyes are burning
As the sands of our time grow old
Anno Mundi

Do you follow the path that so many tread?
Are you among the blind so easily lead?
Do you join the war, do you fight for the cause?
Depend on another to fight it alone

The wind in the night blows cold
Your eyes are burning
As the sands of our time grow old
Anno Mundi

Can you see me now, can you hear me now?
Can you tell me where's the glory?
Ride the days and sail the nights

When it's over, you'll find the answer
running in the rain

There's a hope that's growing and a vision too
All those angry hearts now reach out for you
Do you look to the dawn, see a new day begun?
No longer the fool, the vision is done.

ODIN’S COURT

As you walk alone the night surrounds you like a shroud
The dreams you had were once of love and being proud
Misty horizons block your vision of the world
But the raven's eyes will show you all you need to know

The land you loved is now so barren and so cold
The name of God rings out so high in your soul
This time the masters will lead us by the sword
And should we fail then all prevails in Odin's court

http://www.lyricsdepot.com/black-sabbath/anno-mundi.html

IMAGES:

beforeitsnews.com

justseeds.org

flickriver.com

alfred-sisley.org

thebooksmugglers.com



KUBLA KHAN

KUBLA KHAN

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree:
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunless sea.

So twice five miles of fertile ground
With walls and towers were girdled round:
And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,
Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;
And here were forests ancient as the hills,
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.

But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted
Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!
A savage place! as holy and enchanted
As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted
By woman wailing for her demon-lover!
And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,
As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,
A mighty fountain momently was forced:

Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst

Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,

Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail:

And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever

It flung up momently the sacred river.

 Five miles meandering with a mazy motion
Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,
Then reached the caverns measureless to man,
And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean:
And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far
Ancestral voices prophesying war!



The shadow of the dome of pleasure
Floated midway on the waves;
Where was heard the mingled measure
From the fountain and the caves.
It was a miracle of rare device,
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!

A damsel with a dulcimer
In a vision once I saw:
It was an Abyssinian maid,
And on her dulcimer she played,
Singing of Mount Abora.
Could I revive within me
Her symphony and song,
To such a deep delight 'twould win me
That with music loud and long
I would build that dome in air,
That sunny dome! those caves of ice!

And all who heard should see them there,
And all should cry, Beware! Beware!

His flashing eyes, his floating hair!
Weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread,

For he on honey-dew hath fed
And drunk the milk of Paradise



photo credits: shani oates copyright

Of Mirth and Morris Men.

Just for something utterly different and very tongue in cheek, here are excerpts from a fabulous website about local 'Morris Traditions':

English "morris" dancing is the earliest known example of biological warfare. Mediaeval documents recently discovered by historians indicate that villagers who showed the early symptoms of bubonic plague were dressed in colourful outlandish costumes with bells tied to their legs and sent to neighbouring hamlets to perform their macabre ritual.

 It is quite remarkable to note that, although little or no knowledge of germs or viral infection was existent at the time, the fact that waving handkerchiefs full of plague infested mucus in the vicinity of one's enemies had a detrimental effect was commonly known, particularly in the south of England.

"They did comme in garish clothe wythe bells about their legges and brandishinge shorte poles of wudde which they did hitte together in a devilishe danse, each holdinge a fylthie ragge soaked all in snotte. Soone after this the plague was upon us. They did also a-molly their cludges in the ftreete, gruntinge lyke pygges"

 It would also seem that this was used as a convenient way of ridding the community of its worst musicians.

 "They did also bringe wythe them uglie daemons from the underworlde who did make a foule dinne upon pypes, fidils and nakers and did take muche ale. These wretched beaftes were not fytte to danse."

Research by scientists has shown that the average career of a morris dancer would have lasted about two weeks, which would account for the musical and terpsichorean simplicity of the "performance" and the pitifully low level of skill involved, which is still in evidence today in some areas, faithfully reproduced.

Thine Unmollied Cludge is like a May Morning

Thine unmollied cludge is like a May morning, But a cludge so neglected, Would ne'er be selected, To nibble, except by a few. The mould verily sparkleth like dew,

Thine unmollied cludge doth need a good forking, But ne'er could I fork such a thing, Though you may have forgotten, The stench is so rotten, Forsooth! It hath withered my string.

Thine unmollied cludge dear should ne'er be unleashed, On good gentlefolk such as I, Its malodorous bent, Could ne'er be heaven sent, And it bringeth a tear to the eye.

Cludge mollying in the Middle Ages

  The Ancient Guild of Cludge Molliers was formed in 1404 at a time when, to molly one's own cludge, particularly in public, had become so socially unacceptable that the perpetrators became outcasts in their own communities, sometimes even to the point of joining the village morris dancers in their depraved activities. This was mainly due to the puritanical influence of the church on society, which could account for the noticeable lack of biblical references to the mollying of cludges after about 1356.

Consequently, by the late 14th century it had become necessary for the outlawed practice to be carried out covertly by skilled, professional cludge molliers who usually preferred to work under cover of darkness, often leading a double life to avoid detection. Indeed, the church was so effective in its effort to stamp out cludge mollying, it is virtually impossible to find any written reference to either cludges, or the general act of mollying in its original sense today, except in the word "mollycoddle".

Obviously to coddle one's cludge is very different to actually mollying it, especially in public, and the church, for all its faults, recognised this. It has been suggested by some historians that a certain amount of clandestine coddling was popular among the clergy at that time, and so would consequently have been viewed with somewhat more lenience than outright mollying. However, it should be noted that the word has now completely lost its original meaning, no doubt in part due to religious zealots misusing it loudly from the pulpit, as with the word "molly" itself, which had taken on a completely different meaning by the early 18th century with which we are not here concerned.

My Johnny's Gone a-Mollying Oh

My Johnny's gone a-mollying oh, across the raging sea, My heart it is full sore because he'll not be back for tea, My cludge it yearns for Johnny's fork, and more so for his string, But my Johnny's gone a-mollying oh, and won't be back 'til Spring.

He'll molly here, he'll molly there, where they can't understand us, My Johnny's gone to molly hard, the cludges o'er in Flanders, Ere he returns, one distant day, his kith and kin to fettle, Be sure, I'll bid him welcome home, and then put on the kettle.

Beneath a bough, somewhere in France, my Johnny mollies gaily, To see my Johnny wield his fork is wond'rous to behold, But my own dear cludge, though e'er so pale, is often thick with mould.I wish I were a foreign cludge, and then I'd see him daily,

I wish I were a blackbird, and could to my sweetheart fly, But how would dearest Johnny know that soaring bird was I?, My cludge will wait, and so must I, despite the grief and pain, For my Johnny's gone a-mollying oh, across the raging main.

In order to preserve what was by then a dying skill, and maintain the necessary secrecy to appease the church, yet keep the public's cludges well mollied, the Guild of Cludge Molliers came into existence. Local legend has it that the formative gatherings were held in the back room of "Ye Forke and Twine", a busy ale house in late 14th century Brampton on the site of which now stands "O' Clackerty's Bar", quite close to the original Brampton castle by the sparkling river Hipper. Naturally, little is known of the actual membership, save for rumour and speculation, but evidence of some structure of apprenticeship can be found in J. M. Blunt's "Folke Songes of Olde Englande" published in 1892. The only known reference to female cludge mollying is in the relatively unknown song, "Come Molly my Cludge, Oh Damsel Fair", but this is generally regarded by scholars as little more than a perverse fantasy, or at best, the mediaeval idea of comedy.

The practice has now of course completely died out in the U.K. (along with life-size corn dollies) since the invention of modern string, and more recently the steam engine. However, it is rumoured that mollying still continues in parts of Europe, albeit in a somewhat more symbolic fashion than hitherto, due to the lack of cludges, but nonetheless poignantly. The northern French town of Couilles to this day boasts an imposing granite monument to "Les Molliers de la Clourge" in the centre of its picturesque market place.

text courtesy of: http://www.brampton-bugle.co.uk/history.html#folksongs

photo credits copyright of shani oates