The following texts are not of my authorship but I really want to share them here.
What about them?
The famous singer Enya and her lyricist Roma Ryan have been working on a project of a new Language: Loxian.
One of the first songs written in this language is called "Water shows the hidden heart" in which she tells the story of a man in his quest for love and his restless nature. The song depicts a lot of places, including The City of Solitudes and the Isle of Revenants. These beautiful excerpts are absolutely worth reading, I hope you enjoy them.Thanks for reading!
The City of Solitudes
What can be said of the City of Solitudes other than that each man is alone in his heart. That each man, though he stands in the midst of a million other men, is a solitude unto himself. And in this solitude there are those who put out their hands. They build bridges. They make roads. They carve pathways into even the most difficult terrains. All of these bridges and roads and pathways lead away from themselves. Yet they lead to other solitudes. All needing somewhere to go, someone to go to. There are those who raise their voice so that the wind will carry their words into the aloneness of another heart, and that heart will hear them and come searching, calling to them, answering. There are those who spell their hearts into existence, who write the deeper desire of their being, so that all will know their solitude. There are those who do not know their aloneness, who are not fully aware, and yet hear the faint echo of voices, or glance at the shapes indigo makes on a page, or sing when others sing, so there is no sound of aloneness.
And there are those who know their own solitude, and know each man’s solitude, and know that even the wind loses itself and the mountains come and go as every other in this span of time. One always enters this city alone, even though there may be others to greet them. One always leaves this city alone. Within its walls, all life happens. Yet it is as if the one-who-is-looking-for-whom-he-loves has always been in this city, has never left it, even though he has travelled mile upon mile, has put his foot in the places love fell, has existed in another’s heart. As if through years of distance all those miles pull themselves back into this one inch of earth, back to this place. He, too, had built bridges. Not with his hands, not with brick or mortar or steel, but with his eyes open and his heart stretched out until it could go no further. He, too, had made roads, not with sweat falling from his brow, but with his understanding. He, too, had forged pathways through many difficult terrains, not with axe or saw, but with his hope. And these roads and bridges and pathways had followed routes he did not know of, had not dreamt of, never knew existed. Until he had arrived. For all roads lead somewhere, to someone. And his roads lead to her. How often they had let go their words into the winds, not understanding life, not understanding death. How often they had taken the flow of indigo into their hands and told each other of their deeper desires.
Echo of voices, shapes on pages. Singing. And those moments of knowing: the epiphanies of mountain, wind, cloud, ocean. The song of the sands sung by a million, million different voices, their hearts broken and broken again, until the one heart had become many and their wanderings that of each man in this city of solitudes. This is truly the City of Cities. It is a place alone, yet it covers the atlas of the world and further.
The Isle of Revenants
The waves are getting ready for everywhere and all at the same time. They do not know what gives them their restless nature, but they cannot stop themselves in their endless quest. They do not know what they are looking for, only that it has not yet been found. Sometimes they feel as if they have grasped the reason for their anxious departures, only to have it wash through their fingers and lose itself. They feel as if they are nowhere, and must keep going, until they are somewhere they do not know, but they know they will recognise it when they have arrived. But they never arrive. They just keep going to and fro, to and fro, back and forth, back and forth, much like those who find themselves on the Isle of Revenants.
They too travel back and forth, to and fro, east and west, west and east, east and west. When those on the island stand at its eastern shore looking out over the sea, over the restless waves, waves as restless as their own souls, they see the beauty of the sun as it lies down on the hillside and as it brightens the grass. They see green as they have never seen it before. They hear the barking of dogs in the distance and the laughter of children ripple the air. They hear the echo of a bell, which echoes against itself until it sounds like a host of bells ringing. They remember when the berries brought forth their beautiful colours and became jewels in the sun. They remember the scent of the purple hyacinth, the flower of sorrow, seeking to be forgiven. They remember the white hyacinth, the flower of beauty.
The blue hyacinth, which embodies constancy. They remember both sadness and joy but their hearts are unsettled. And they say to themselves: "What I seek must be in the west". When those on the island stand on its western shore looking out over the sea, over the restless waves, waves as restless as their own souls, they see a canvas of ever changing colour. They see the reflection of the sky looking down into blue eyes, the warm chaos of gold and yellow and orange as the sun falls into the sea, the gray tones of sadness that covers the waves. They see the stars mesmerized by the sea which is mesmerized by the stars. They see the moon looking for love and, in its madness, letting the ocean pull its heart apart, until it dawns upon the moon, and the moon pulls its heart back from the ocean. They see the immensity of night as it tries to find itself. In all of these episodes there is no sound other than the sea. And those on the island who stand looking out, see and hear these wonders, but their hearts are unsettled. And they say to themselves: "What I seek must be on the eastern shore"
This is the way it always was; that which was distant was worthy and desirable because it was distant, that which they have here, which they hold in their hands, is nothing, because it is here, in their hands. Without the great journey to seek what is not known, they cannot be fulfilled. The leaf of a tree with an exotic name must surely be more prized than this one green leaf that falls before them as the autumn approaches. Besides, where the sun lies down on the hill is much more beautiful than this shore they now stand on. They search for what cannot be, and they cannot stop searching. To be at peace they must give themselves up to what is, the way the waves must let themselves be at peace with the sea. But it does not happen.
---
What about them?
The famous singer Enya and her lyricist Roma Ryan have been working on a project of a new Language: Loxian.
One of the first songs written in this language is called "Water shows the hidden heart" in which she tells the story of a man in his quest for love and his restless nature. The song depicts a lot of places, including The City of Solitudes and the Isle of Revenants. These beautiful excerpts are absolutely worth reading, I hope you enjoy them.Thanks for reading!
The City of Solitudes
What can be said of the City of Solitudes other than that each man is alone in his heart. That each man, though he stands in the midst of a million other men, is a solitude unto himself. And in this solitude there are those who put out their hands. They build bridges. They make roads. They carve pathways into even the most difficult terrains. All of these bridges and roads and pathways lead away from themselves. Yet they lead to other solitudes. All needing somewhere to go, someone to go to. There are those who raise their voice so that the wind will carry their words into the aloneness of another heart, and that heart will hear them and come searching, calling to them, answering. There are those who spell their hearts into existence, who write the deeper desire of their being, so that all will know their solitude. There are those who do not know their aloneness, who are not fully aware, and yet hear the faint echo of voices, or glance at the shapes indigo makes on a page, or sing when others sing, so there is no sound of aloneness.
And there are those who know their own solitude, and know each man’s solitude, and know that even the wind loses itself and the mountains come and go as every other in this span of time. One always enters this city alone, even though there may be others to greet them. One always leaves this city alone. Within its walls, all life happens. Yet it is as if the one-who-is-looking-for-whom-he-loves has always been in this city, has never left it, even though he has travelled mile upon mile, has put his foot in the places love fell, has existed in another’s heart. As if through years of distance all those miles pull themselves back into this one inch of earth, back to this place. He, too, had built bridges. Not with his hands, not with brick or mortar or steel, but with his eyes open and his heart stretched out until it could go no further. He, too, had made roads, not with sweat falling from his brow, but with his understanding. He, too, had forged pathways through many difficult terrains, not with axe or saw, but with his hope. And these roads and bridges and pathways had followed routes he did not know of, had not dreamt of, never knew existed. Until he had arrived. For all roads lead somewhere, to someone. And his roads lead to her. How often they had let go their words into the winds, not understanding life, not understanding death. How often they had taken the flow of indigo into their hands and told each other of their deeper desires.
Echo of voices, shapes on pages. Singing. And those moments of knowing: the epiphanies of mountain, wind, cloud, ocean. The song of the sands sung by a million, million different voices, their hearts broken and broken again, until the one heart had become many and their wanderings that of each man in this city of solitudes. This is truly the City of Cities. It is a place alone, yet it covers the atlas of the world and further.
The Isle of Revenants
The waves are getting ready for everywhere and all at the same time. They do not know what gives them their restless nature, but they cannot stop themselves in their endless quest. They do not know what they are looking for, only that it has not yet been found. Sometimes they feel as if they have grasped the reason for their anxious departures, only to have it wash through their fingers and lose itself. They feel as if they are nowhere, and must keep going, until they are somewhere they do not know, but they know they will recognise it when they have arrived. But they never arrive. They just keep going to and fro, to and fro, back and forth, back and forth, much like those who find themselves on the Isle of Revenants.
They too travel back and forth, to and fro, east and west, west and east, east and west. When those on the island stand at its eastern shore looking out over the sea, over the restless waves, waves as restless as their own souls, they see the beauty of the sun as it lies down on the hillside and as it brightens the grass. They see green as they have never seen it before. They hear the barking of dogs in the distance and the laughter of children ripple the air. They hear the echo of a bell, which echoes against itself until it sounds like a host of bells ringing. They remember when the berries brought forth their beautiful colours and became jewels in the sun. They remember the scent of the purple hyacinth, the flower of sorrow, seeking to be forgiven. They remember the white hyacinth, the flower of beauty.
The blue hyacinth, which embodies constancy. They remember both sadness and joy but their hearts are unsettled. And they say to themselves: "What I seek must be in the west". When those on the island stand on its western shore looking out over the sea, over the restless waves, waves as restless as their own souls, they see a canvas of ever changing colour. They see the reflection of the sky looking down into blue eyes, the warm chaos of gold and yellow and orange as the sun falls into the sea, the gray tones of sadness that covers the waves. They see the stars mesmerized by the sea which is mesmerized by the stars. They see the moon looking for love and, in its madness, letting the ocean pull its heart apart, until it dawns upon the moon, and the moon pulls its heart back from the ocean. They see the immensity of night as it tries to find itself. In all of these episodes there is no sound other than the sea. And those on the island who stand looking out, see and hear these wonders, but their hearts are unsettled. And they say to themselves: "What I seek must be on the eastern shore"
This is the way it always was; that which was distant was worthy and desirable because it was distant, that which they have here, which they hold in their hands, is nothing, because it is here, in their hands. Without the great journey to seek what is not known, they cannot be fulfilled. The leaf of a tree with an exotic name must surely be more prized than this one green leaf that falls before them as the autumn approaches. Besides, where the sun lies down on the hill is much more beautiful than this shore they now stand on. They search for what cannot be, and they cannot stop searching. To be at peace they must give themselves up to what is, the way the waves must let themselves be at peace with the sea. But it does not happen.
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I'm so happy I decided to visit your blog. I thought about this excerpt after I came home from the east and I wanted to read it so badly. Thankfully you have it posted.
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