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Saturday, 19 August 2017
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Listen Charles Charamba -Handidi Naye- www.zimvibes.com


Elevation (Alcest)

Above the ponds, above the valleys,
From the mountains, woods, clouds, seas,
Beyond the sun, across the ethers,
Beyond the confines of starry spheres,

My mind, you meus with agility,
And, as a good swimmer who pâme in the wave,
You sillonnes gaily the immensity deep
With a male and unspeakable delight.

Envole yourself away from these miasmas morbid;
Go to purify the air above,
And wood, as a pure and divine liqueur
The bright that fills the spaces clear.

Behind the problems and the vast sorrows
Who responsible for their weight hazy existence,
Blessed is he who is a strong wing
To rush the fields bright and serene;

Anyone whose pensers, as larks,
Towards the skies in the morning to take a free swing,
-- Who plane on life, and includes effortlessly
The language of flowers and things silent!

Charles Baudelaire

Saari Raat Jaga (Noori)

Sari Raat Jaga Ray Jaga Ray...
La**Dil Hara Ray Hara Ray...
Kho Diyay Wo Lamhay Saray Ray...
Teray Bin Kaun Mein Yaara Ray...
Meri Jaan Tu Nay Jana Menay Jana...
Meri Jaan Teri Haan Meri Haan...
Dar Aya Daur Aya...
Dar Aya Daur Aya Na...

Rat Jaagi Yaadein Meray Dil Mein
Kho Diya Na Paya Jo Bhi Dil Nay...

Teray Liyay Hara Yara Ray...
Teray Liyay Saray Ghum Hain Sahay...
Teray Liyay...

Jab Teri Aankhein So Jayein...
Aur Teri Yadein Kho Jayien...
Teray Tan Mein Teray Man Mein...
Teray Ghar Ko Aag Lag Jayay...
Aur Tujhay Jag Na Ayay...

Sari Raat Jaga Ray Jaga Ray...
Dobay Man Mera Jo Hara Ray Hara Ray...
Kho Diyay Wo Lamhay Saray Ray...
Aaj Hein Dhoondtay Yaara Ray...

Rat Jaagi Aahein Meray Dil Mein...
Kho Diya Na Paya Jo Bhi Dil Nay...

Teray Liyay Hara Yara Ray...
Teray Liyay Saray Ghum Hain Sahay...
Teray Liyay...

Jab Teri Aankhein So Jayein...
Aur Teri Yadein Kho Jayien...
Teray Tan Mein Teray Man Mein...
Teray Ghar Ko Aag Lag Jayay...
Aur Tujhay Jag Na Ayay...

Jab Teri Aankhein So Jayein...
Aur Teri Yadein Kho Jayien...
Teray Tan Mein Teray Man Mein...
Teray Ghar Ko Aag Lag Jayay...
Aur Tujhay Jag Na Ayay...

Sonnets 61-90 (Crystal K)


Is it thy will thy image should keep open
My heavy eyelids to the weary night?
Dost thou desire my slumbers should be broken,
While shadows like to thee do mock my sight?
Is it thy spirit that thou send'st from thee
So far from home into my deeds to pry,
To find out shames and idle hours in me,
The scope and tenor of thy jealousy?
O, no! thy love, though much, is not so great:
It is my love that keeps mine eye awake;
Mine own true love that doth my rest defeat,
To play the watchman ever for thy sake:
For thee watch I whilst thou dost wake elsewhere,
From me far off, with others all too near.


Sin of self-love possesseth all mine eye
And all my soul and all my every part;
And for this sin there is no remedy,
It is so grounded inward in my heart.
Methinks no face so gracious is as mine,
No shape so true, no truth of such account;
And for myself mine own worth do define,
As I all other in all worths surmount.
But when my glass shows me myself indeed,
Beated and chopp'd with tann'd antiquity,
Mine own self-love quite contrary I read;
Self so self-loving were iniquity.
'Tis thee, myself, that for myself I praise,
Painting my age with beauty of thy days.


Against my love shall be, as I am now,
With Time's injurious hand crush'd and o'er-worn;
When hours have drain'd his blood and fill'd his brow
With lines and wrinkles; when his youthful morn
Hath travell'd on to age's steepy night,
And all those beauties whereof now he's king
Are vanishing or vanish'd out of sight,
Stealing away the treasure of his spring;
For such a time do I now fortify
Against confounding age's cruel knife,
That he shall never cut from memory
My sweet love's beauty, though my lover's life:
His beauty shall in these black lines be seen,
And they shall live, and he in them still green.


When I have seen by Time's fell hand defaced
The rich proud cost of outworn buried age;
When sometime lofty towers I see down-razed
And brass eternal slave to mortal rage;
When I have seen the hungry ocean gain
Advantage on the kingdom of the shore,
And the firm soil win of the watery main,
Increasing store with loss and loss with store;
When I have seen such interchange of state,
Or state itself confounded to decay;
Ruin hath taught me thus to ruminate,
That Time will come and take my love away.
This thought is as a death, which cannot choose
But weep to have that which it fears to lose.


Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea,
But sad mortality o'er-sways their power,
How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea,
Whose action is no stronger than a flower?
O, how shall summer's honey breath hold out
Against the wreckful siege of battering days,
When rocks impregnable are not so stout,
Nor gates of steel so strong, but Time decays?
O fearful meditation! where, alack,
Shall Time's best jewel from Time's chest lie hid?
Or what strong hand can hold his swift foot back?
Or who his spoil of beauty can forbid?
O, none, unless this miracle have might,
That in black ink my love may still shine bright.


Tired with all these, for restful death I cry,
As, to behold desert a beggar born,
And needy nothing trimm'd in jollity,
And purest faith unhappily forsworn,
And guilded honour shamefully misplaced,
And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted,
And right perfection wrongfully disgraced,
And strength by limping sway disabled,
And art made tongue-tied by authority,
And folly doctor-like controlling skill,
And simple truth miscall'd simplicity,
And captive good attending captain ill:
Tired with all these, from these would I be gone,
Save that, to die, I leave my love alone.


Ah! wherefore with infection should he live,
And with his presence grace impiety,
That sin by him advantage should achieve
And lace itself with his society?
Why should false painting imitate his cheek
And steal dead seeing of his living hue?
Why should poor beauty indirectly seek
Roses of shadow, since his rose is true?
Why should he live, now Nature bankrupt is,
Beggar'd of blood to blush through lively veins?
For she hath no exchequer now but his,
And, proud of many, lives upon his gains.
O, him she stores, to show what wealth she had
In days long since, before these last so bad.


Thus is his cheek the map of days outworn,
When beauty lived and died as flowers do now,
Before the bastard signs of fair were born,
Or durst inhabit on a living brow;
Before the golden tresses of the dead,
The right of sepulchres, were shorn away,
To live a second life on second head;
Ere beauty's dead fleece made another**:
In him those holy antique hours are seen,
Without all ornament, itself and true,
Making no summer of another's green,
Robbing no old to dress his beauty new;
And him as for a map doth Nature store,
To show false Art what beauty was of yore.


Those parts of thee that the world's eye doth view
Want nothing that the thought of hearts can mend;
All tongues, the voice of souls, give thee that due,
Uttering bare truth, even so as foes commend.
Thy outward thus with outward praise is crown'd;
But those same tongues that give thee so thine own
In other accents do this praise confound
By seeing farther than the eye hath shown.
They look into the beauty of thy mind,
And that, in guess, they measure by thy deeds;
Then, churls, their thoughts, although their eyes were kind,
To thy fair flower add the rank smell of weeds:
But why thy odour matcheth not thy show,
The solve is this, that thou dost common grow.


That thou art blamed shall not be thy defect,
For slander's mark was ever yet the fair;
The ornament of beauty is suspect,
A crow that flies in heaven's sweetest air.
So thou be good, slander doth but approve
Thy worth the greater, being woo'd of time;
For canker vice the sweetest buds doth love,
And thou present'st a pure unstained prime.
Thou hast pass'd by the ambush of young days,
Either not assail'd or victor being charged;
Yet this thy praise cannot be so thy praise,
To tie up envy evermore enlarged:
If some suspect of ill mask'd not thy show,
Then thou alone kingdoms of hearts shouldst owe.


No longer mourn for me when I am dead
Then you shall hear the surly sullen bell
Give warning to the world that I am fled
From this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell:
Nay, if you read this line, remember not
The hand that writ it; for I love you so
That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot
If thinking on me then should make you woe.
O, if, I say, you look upon this verse
When I perhaps compounded am with clay,
Do not so much as my poor name rehearse.
But let your love even with my life decay,
Lest the wise world should look into your moan
And mock you with me after I am gone.


O, lest the world should task you to recite
What merit lived in me, that you should love
After my death, dear love, forget me quite,
For you in me can nothing worthy prove;
Unless you would devise some virtuous lie,
To do more for me than mine own desert,
And hang more praise upon deceased I
Than niggard truth would willingly impart:
O, lest your true love may seem false in this,
That you for love speak well of me untrue,
My name be buried where my body is,
And live no more to shame nor me nor you.
For I am shamed by that which I bring forth,
And so should you, to love things nothing worth.


That time of year thou mayst in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
In me thou seest the twilight of such day
As after sunset fadeth in the west,
Which by and by black night doth take away,
Death's second self, that seals up all in rest.
In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,
As the death-bed whereon it must expire
Consumed with that which it was nourish'd by.
This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more strong,
To love that well which thou must leave ere long.


But be contented: when that fell arrest
Without all bail shall carry me away,
My life hath in this line some interest,
Which for memorial still with thee shall stay.
When thou reviewest this, thou dost review
The very part was consecrate to thee:
The earth can have but earth, which is his due;
My spirit is thine, the better part of me:
So then thou hast but lost the dregs of life,
The prey of worms, my body being dead,
The coward conquest of a wretch's knife,
Too base of thee to be remembered.
The worth of that is that which it contains,
And that is this, and this with thee remains.


So are you to my thoughts as food to life,
Or as sweet-season'd showers are to the ground;
And for the peace of you I hold such strife
As 'twixt a miser and his wealth is found;
Now proud as an enjoyer and anon
Doubting the filching age will steal his treasure,
Now counting best to be with you alone,
Then better'd that the world may see my pleasure;
Sometime all full with feasting on your sight
And by and by clean starved for a look;
Possessing or pursuing no delight,
Save what is had or must from you be took.
Thus do I pine and surfeit day by day,
Or gluttoning on all, or all away.


Why is my verse so barren of new pride,
So far from variation or quick change?
Why with the time do I not glance aside
To new-found methods and to compounds strange?
Why write I still all one, ever the same,
And keep invention in a noted weed,
That every word doth almost tell my name,
Showing their birth and where they did proceed?
O, know, sweet love, I always write of you,
And you and love are still my argument;
So all my best is dressing old words new,
Spending again what is already spent:
For as the sun is daily new and old,
So is my love still telling what is told.


Thy glass will show thee how thy beauties wear,
Thy dial how thy precious minutes waste;
The vacant leaves thy mind's imprint will bear,
And of this book this learning mayst thou taste.
The wrinkles which thy glass will truly show
Of mouthed graves will give thee memory;
Thou by thy dial's shady stealth mayst know
Time's thievish progress to eternity.
Look, what thy memory can not contain
Commit to these waste blanks, and thou shalt find
Those children nursed, deliver'd from thy brain,
To take a new acquaintance of thy mind.
These offices, so oft as thou wilt look,
Shall profit thee and much enrich thy book.


So oft have I invoked thee for my Muse
And found such fair assistance in my verse
As every alien pen hath got my use
And under thee their poesy disperse.
Thine eyes that taught the dumb on high to sing
And heavy ignorance aloft to fly
Have added feathers to the learned's wing
And given grace a double majesty.
Yet be most proud of that which I compile,
Whose influence is thine and born of thee:
In others' works thou dost but mend the style,
And arts with thy sweet graces graced be;
But thou art all my art and dost advance
As high as learning my rude ignorance.


Whilst I alone did call upon thy aid,
My verse alone had all thy gentle grace,
But now my gracious numbers are decay'd
And my sick Muse doth give another place.
I grant, sweet love, thy lovely argument
Deserves the travail of a worthier pen,
Yet what of thee thy poet doth invent
He robs thee of and pays it thee again.
He lends thee virtue and he stole that word
From thy behavior; beauty doth he give
And found it in thy cheek; he can afford
No praise to thee but what in thee doth live.
Then thank him not for that which he doth say,
Since what he owes thee thou thyself dost pay.


O, how I faint when I of you do write,
Knowing a better spirit doth use your name,
And in the praise thereof spends all his might,
To make me tongue-tied, speaking of your fame!
But since your worth, wide as the ocean is,
The humble as the proudest sail doth bear,
My saucy bark inferior far to his
On your broad main doth wilfully appear.
Your shallowest help will hold me up afloat,
Whilst he upon your soundless deep doth ride;
Or being wreck'd, I am a worthless boat,
He of tall building and of goodly pride:
Then if he thrive and I be cast away,
The worst was this; my love was my decay.


Or I shall live your epitaph to make,
Or you survive when I in earth am rotten;
From hence your memory death cannot take,
Although in me each part will be forgotten.
Your name from hence immortal life shall have,
Though I, once gone, to all the world must die:
The earth can yield me but a common grave,
When you entombed in men's eyes shall lie.
Your monument shall be my gentle verse,
Which eyes not yet created shall o'er-read,
And tongues to be your being shall rehearse
When all the breathers of this world are dead;
You still shall live--such virtue hath my pen--
Where breath most breathes, even in the mouths of men.


I grant thou wert not married to my Muse
And therefore mayst without attaint o'erlook
The dedicated words which writers use
Of their fair subject, blessing every book
Thou art as fair in knowledge as in hue,
Finding thy worth a limit past my praise,
And therefore art enforced to seek anew
Some fresher stamp of the time-bettering days
And do so, love; yet when they have devised
What strained touches rhetoric can lend,
Thou truly fair wert truly sympathized
In true plain words by thy true-telling friend;
And their gross painting might be better used
Where cheeks need blood; in thee it is abused.


I never saw that you did painting need
And therefore to your fair no painting set;
I found, or thought I found, you did exceed
The barren tender of a poet's debt;
And therefore have I slept in your report,
That you yourself being extant well might show
How far a modern quill doth come too short,
Speaking of worth, what worth in you doth grow.
This silence for my sin you did impute,
Which shall be most my glory, being dumb;
For I impair not beauty being mute,
When others would give life and bring a tomb.
There lives more life in one of your fair eyes
Than both your poets can in praise devise.


Who is it that says most? which can say more
Than this rich praise, that you alone are you?
In whose confine immured is the store
Which should example where your equal grew.
Lean penury within that pen doth dwell
That to his subject lends not some small glory;
But he that writes of you, if he can tell
That you are you, so dignifies his story,
Let him but copy what in you is writ,
Not making worse what nature made so clear,
And such a counterpart shall fame his wit,
Making his style admired every where.
You to your beauteous blessings add a curse,
Being fond on praise, which makes your praises worse.


My tongue-tied Muse in manners holds her still,
While comments of your praise, richly compiled,
Reserve their character with golden quill
And precious phrase by all the Muses filed.
I think good thoughts whilst other write good words,
And like unletter'd clerk still cry 'Amen'
To every hymn that able spirit affords
In polish'd form of well-refined pen.
Hearing you praised, I say ''Tis so, 'tis true,'
And to the most of praise add something more;
But that is in my thought, whose love to you,
Though words come hindmost, holds his rank before.
Then others for the breath of words respect,
Me for my dumb thoughts, speaking in effect.


Was it the proud full sail of his great verse,
Bound for the prize of all too precious you,
That did my ripe thoughts in my brain inhearse,
Making their tomb the womb wherein they grew?
Was it his spirit, by spirits taught to write
Above a mortal pitch, that struck me dead?
No, neither he, nor his compeers by night
Giving him aid, my verse astonished.
He, nor that affable familiar ghost
Which nightly gulls him with intelligence
As victors of my silence cannot boast;
I was not sick of any fear from thence:
But when your countenance fill'd up his line,
Then lack'd I matter; that enfeebled mine.


Farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing,
And like enough thou know'st thy estimate:
The charter of thy worth gives thee releasing;
My bonds in thee are all determinate.
For how do I hold thee but by thy granting?
And for that riches where is my deserving?
The cause of this fair gift in me is wanting,
And so my patent back again is swerving.
Thyself thou gavest, thy own worth then not knowing,
Or me, to whom thou gavest it, else mistaking;
So thy great gift, upon misprision growing,
Comes home again, on better judgment making.
Thus have I had thee, as a dream doth flatter,
In sleep a king, but waking no such matter.


When thou shalt be disposed to set me light,
And place my merit in the eye of scorn,
Upon thy side against myself I'll fight,
And prove thee virtuous, though thou art forsworn.
With mine own weakness being best acquainted,
Upon thy part I can set down a story
Of faults conceal'd, wherein I am attainted,
That thou in losing me shalt win much glory:
And I by this will be a gainer too;
For bending all my loving thoughts on thee,
The injuries that to myself I do,
Doing thee vantage, double-vantage me.
Such is my love, to thee I so belong,
That for thy right myself will bear all wrong.


Say that thou didst forsake me for some fault,
And I will comment upon that offence;
Speak of my lameness, and I straight will halt,
Against thy reasons making no defence.
Thou canst not, love, disgrace me half so ill,
To set a form upon desired change,
As I'll myself disgrace: knowing thy will,
I will acquaintance strangle and look strange,
Be absent from thy walks, and in my tongue
Thy sweet beloved name no more shall dwell,
Lest I, too much profane, should do it wrong
And haply of our old acquaintance tell.
For thee against myself I'll vow debate,
For I must ne'er love him whom thou dost hate.


Then hate me when thou wilt; if ever, now;
Now, while the world is bent my deeds to cross,
Join with the spite of fortune, make me bow,
And do not drop in for an after-loss:
Ah, do not, when my heart hath 'scoped this sorrow,
Come in the rearward of a conquer'd woe;
Give not a windy night a rainy morrow,
To linger out a purposed overthrow.
If thou wilt leave me, do not leave me last,
When other petty griefs have done their spite
But in the onset come; so shall I taste
At first the very worst of fortune's might,
And other strains of woe, which now seem woe,
Compared with loss of thee will not seem so.

On Whom The Moon Doth Shine (Theatre Of Tragedy)

"O soft embalmer of ye still midnight,
Allow me thee to adown,
Of any sort thou fancieth;
Each holdeth its own fancy, I say -
Yet the pleasure we partake in
Was caus'd by the fang'd grin,
Save!, do I for him anger hold?
Nay - I knew I was fey!"
"Had I what it taketh I would do;
I sense - I cannot sense,
I am - yet! I am not -
Once I kiss'd the image
Of the Seven Angels of Death..."
"Yet as thou so didst,
On my lips a kiss landéd,
And with the shadows blendéd
The tendermost silken mourn;
In which the light hidden is -
Yon Hell's brazen doors
Wrothfully it trieth to push."
"Then, lo! the Black Death,
Serpent-like 'twixt the breasts crept;
Hush'd with a gasp of life's breath,
"Hush'd with a gasp of life's breath,
Together red tears they wept,
Together red tears we wept - in vain,
And pass'd the procession of dancers dead -
And pass'd the procession of dancers dead -
As in darkness were we lock'd in wed."
As in darkness were we lock'd in wed;
I kiss'd the Seven Angels of Death."
"And Hell open'd its doors,
Yet what was 'fore my eyes
"Yet what was 'fore my eyes
But if not the brightest light."
But if not the brightest light."

1567 - Under The Bloodcampaign (The Monolith Deathcult)

Charles V was old and weak when he abdicated his throne
Philip II was impo**r but his only son
He was no statesman but a crusader of the Roman Church
A grave and somber man resolved to a heretic purge
The hunt on the heretics brought the Dutch in state of war

200 nobles petitioned Philip to not institute the feared Inquisition Court
Philip refused the petition and burned more heretics at the stake
A mass revolt broke out feeded with unanimous hate

"Yea we pull down the images of the false church
We pillage the temples of the popery
Defacing the paintings and tapestries of ancient Rome
With a fierce contempt we destroy the symbols of the dishonest"

The Dutch stubborn as always started to provoke Philip II
Mass revolts in the Netherlands start with anti-Catholic looting
The Iconoclasm Fury broke out and idolatry burnt
Philip was outraged and condemned the Netherlands to the Bloodcampaign

The ravagings of the churches filled Philip with great disgust
"Strangle, burn, behead them!" He ordered punishment with iron fist
He sent duke Alva to the Netherlands with 20.000 Spanish troops
Arrived in Brussels he immediately instituted the feared Council of Blood
Cruel religious terror swept over the land with a relentless full force
His Counter Reformation sentenced countless people to be burned upon the stake
Heretic corpses everywhere, columns and stakes await in every single street
The Duke punished with an art of torture beyond Saddams wildest fantasies

Silhouettes of butcheries and martyrdoms - A new skyline was born
To terrify the Dutch he killed Count Egmond and Lord Hoorne
A shockwave went through Holland because they had always been faithful to the King of Spain

The Dutch stubborn as always started to provoke Philip II
Mass revolts in the Netherlands start with anti-Catholic looting
The Iconoclasm Fury broke out and idolatry burnt
Philip was outraged and condemned the Netherlands to the Bloodcampaign

"Yea we pull down the images of the false church
We pillage the temples of the popery
Defacing the paintings and tapestries of ancient Rome
With a fierce contempt we destroy the symbols of the dishonest"

Philip II felt betrayed and ordered:"The Silent must be slain"
The Stadholder of Orange died in Delft lying in a pool of blood
The Dutchman may have lost their Chief but their National Spirit reinforced

america the beautiful 1972 (tom clay)

Ray Charles - America the Beautiful 1972 Music Downloads Ray Charles - America the Beautiful 1972 Ringtone Oh beautiful, for heroes proved,In liberating strife,Who more than self, THEIR country loved,And mercy more than life,America,OH America, may God thy gold refine,Till all success be noblenessAnd every gain devined.And you know when I was in school,We used to sing it something like this, listen here:Oh beautiful, for spacious skies,For amber waves of grain,For purple mountain majesties,Above the fruited plain,But now wait a minute, I'm talking aboutAmerica, sweet America,You know, God done shed his grace on thee,He crowned thy good, yes he did, in a brotherhood,From sea to shining sea.You know, I wish I had somebody to help me sing this(America, America, God shed his grace on thee)America, I love you America, you see,My God he done shed his grace on thee,And you oughta love him for it,Cause he, he, he, he, crowned thy good,He told me he would, with brotherhood,(From sea to shining sea).Oh Lord, oh Lord, I thank you Lord(Shining sea).------------- Lyrics Powered by LyricFind Written By WARD, SAMUEL/BATES, KATHERINE/COURAGE, ALEXANDER (ARR.)Lyrics © EMI Music Publishing, Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC, Warner/Chappell Music, Inc. Ray Charles - America the Beautiful 1972 Music Downloads Ray Charles - America the Beautiful 1972 Ringtone

Lovecraft's Death (Hillsong)

The cold comes
The rats in the walls break
The deadly sound of silence
As time decays
You try to name the unnamable
A whispererer in darkness

Our hound smells you
The haunter of the dark
Will come to take you to our realm
Your life, your books
March in front your closing eyes
Beyond the walls of sleep

Lovecraft in the realm of the dead

Obsessed with Necronomicon
The Arab's wicked dream
You found a path to Azathoth
And walked the Dagon's realm

Your friends were haunted too
Do you remember Charles?
Or haven't you heard
The music of Erich Zann
The call of Cthulhu we disguised
With notes and raving rhythms
To spread the seed of lurking fear
Into the heart of man

Lovecraft in the realm of the dead

Your time is out you saw too much
You used the silver key
You know too well that minds like yours
Can never rest in peace

You stared at the abyss
You'll never rest in peace

You'll never rest in peace

Tunak Tunak Tun (Dalar Mehndi)

dholna, vaje tumbe val taar
soode dil de pukar
aaja karle ye pyar, dholna

duniya yaara rang-birangi' naal
paidi naye changi

soonn yaara bole ek tara
Mehndi Da Yaara

Dholna Kadeh Mere Nal Hass
Mainu Dil Valli Dass
Nahin Taan Teri Meri Bass

Dholna Tu Chann Mein Chakor
Sadde Varga Na Hor
Rab Hath Saddi Dor

English Translation

Dholna*, the strings of the instrument play
listen to what the heart says
come and love me, Dholna

the world is a colorful place
its not good nor bad

listen friends the iktaara* says
Mehndi's friends

Dholna, come smile with me sometimes
My heart's keeper (lover) look
this body is not under your's or my control

Dholna, you are moon and I am chakor*
there is no one like us
our threads of life are in the hands of god

"Dholna" = my dear or Sweetheart
"iktaara" = Musical instrument with one string
"Chakor" = A mythical bird that is supposed to look at the moon continuously like it is in love with it

Je T'attends (Charles Aznavour)

Mes jours passent, mes nuits pleurent
Et pleure le temps
Ma raison sombre et se meurt
Quand meurt le temps
Ce temps mort que je regrette
Tant et tant
Car sans joie ma vie s'arrête
Et je t'attends

J'attends l'air que je respire
Et le printemps
J'attends mes éclats de rire
Et mes vingt ans
Mes mers calmes et mes tempêtes
En même temps
Car sans joie ma vie s'arrête
Et je t'attends

Je t'attends
Viens ne tarde pas
D'où que tu viennes, qui que tu sois
Viens le temps est court
Je t'attends
Mon rêve inconnu
Quel est ton nom, quel est ton but
Le mien c'est l'amour

Pour que mes jours se transforment
Et que vraiment
Ma vie par toi prenne forme
A chaque instant
Parce que le vide me hante
Avec mon sang
Comme un peintre je t'invente
Et je t'attends

Mes doigts par petites touches
Font tes dents
Avant de croquer ta bouche
Mais ces rêves ne me laissent
Que tourments
Car je traîne ma détresse
Et je t'attends

Charlie's Atlas (Trashcan Sinatras)

i never lost my virginity... i know exactly where i put it.
at 21, the toast of paris, just oozing prematurity.
she was nonchalant and graceful.
i was very gaunt, and grateful
you had me singing charles, at last!

so i tunneled with a europanache,
i continentally cut a dash.
will they love me when i'm short of cash?
or leave me for the latest smash?
you know, i had to say "i don't care"
you really should have been there,
travelling charlie's atlas.
now, god's own chosen old son is lonesome,
do we all go off the rails?

i've got the palace to myself tonight.
i can do whatever i like.
i could fix me a drink or a bite.
or reminisce all over the night,
when i was bearing all the hallmarks of a damn good time.
you caught me saying, "charles, at last"
king at last, di's been cast.. king... finally, king finally.


Charles Charamba -Handidi Naye- www.zimvibes.com.

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