Growth Of The Soil
from Hyperborean Folklore by SERPENT ASCENDING
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lyrics
Music: Jarno Nurmi
Lyrics: excerpts from Growth of the Soil by Knut Hamsun, translated from the original text Markens Grøde (1917) by W.W. Worster
*
The long, long road over the moors and up into the forest
The man comes, walking toward the north
A strong, coarse fellow, with a red iron beard,
and little scars on face and hands;
sites of old wounds--were they gained in toil or fight?
Maybe the man has been in prison, and is looking for a place to hide;
or a philosopher, maybe, in search of peace.
This or that, he comes; the figure of a man in this great solitude.
Hours of this, twilight is falling,
purl of water, like the voice of a living thing.
Climb the slope, the valley half in darkness below;
and beyond, the sky to the south.
He climbs to the top of a hill, looking out.
Oh, as if he loved his calling,
a lumbering man in the forest.
A bright idea; an inspiration, maybe, sent from God.
**
Inger sat down on the door-slab.
She was in pain; her face was aflame.
She had kept her feet till Isak was gone;
He and the bull were out of sight,
she could give way to a groan without fear.
Her time was come.
She is perfectly conscious all the while,
glance at the clock on the wall to see the time.
Never a cry, hardly a movement;
Strange cry in the bed, groan is heard;
a blessed little voice; poor thing, poor little thing...
She slips back on the bed.
A minute passes; she cannot rest,
the little cry down there in the bed grows louder,
she raises herself once more, and sees--O God, the direst of all! No mercy, no hope.
In less than ten minutes she had borne her child and killed it...
***
He found the little body by the stream.
He knew pretty closely where it must be,
but he had left the matter idly as it was.
Then chance willed it so that he should not forget it altogether.
He found the thing under a heap of moss and twigs,
kept down by flat stones, wrapped in a cloth, in a piece of rag.
With curiosity and horror
he drew the cloth a little aside—
eyes closed, dark hair, a boy,
and the legs crossed--that was all he saw.
He could not leave it there in the light of day,
He ran home for a spade and dug the grave deeper;
but, being so near the stream, the water came in,
He laid down the turf again on top,
but a little green mound among the bushes.
On the way she passes by a place she knows;
a little child had once lain buried there;
she had patted down the earth with her hands,
set up a tiny cross—oh, but it was long ago.
Lyrics: excerpts from Growth of the Soil by Knut Hamsun, translated from the original text Markens Grøde (1917) by W.W. Worster
*
The long, long road over the moors and up into the forest
The man comes, walking toward the north
A strong, coarse fellow, with a red iron beard,
and little scars on face and hands;
sites of old wounds--were they gained in toil or fight?
Maybe the man has been in prison, and is looking for a place to hide;
or a philosopher, maybe, in search of peace.
This or that, he comes; the figure of a man in this great solitude.
Hours of this, twilight is falling,
purl of water, like the voice of a living thing.
Climb the slope, the valley half in darkness below;
and beyond, the sky to the south.
He climbs to the top of a hill, looking out.
Oh, as if he loved his calling,
a lumbering man in the forest.
A bright idea; an inspiration, maybe, sent from God.
**
Inger sat down on the door-slab.
She was in pain; her face was aflame.
She had kept her feet till Isak was gone;
He and the bull were out of sight,
she could give way to a groan without fear.
Her time was come.
She is perfectly conscious all the while,
glance at the clock on the wall to see the time.
Never a cry, hardly a movement;
Strange cry in the bed, groan is heard;
a blessed little voice; poor thing, poor little thing...
She slips back on the bed.
A minute passes; she cannot rest,
the little cry down there in the bed grows louder,
she raises herself once more, and sees--O God, the direst of all! No mercy, no hope.
In less than ten minutes she had borne her child and killed it...
***
He found the little body by the stream.
He knew pretty closely where it must be,
but he had left the matter idly as it was.
Then chance willed it so that he should not forget it altogether.
He found the thing under a heap of moss and twigs,
kept down by flat stones, wrapped in a cloth, in a piece of rag.
With curiosity and horror
he drew the cloth a little aside—
eyes closed, dark hair, a boy,
and the legs crossed--that was all he saw.
He could not leave it there in the light of day,
He ran home for a spade and dug the grave deeper;
but, being so near the stream, the water came in,
He laid down the turf again on top,
but a little green mound among the bushes.
On the way she passes by a place she knows;
a little child had once lain buried there;
she had patted down the earth with her hands,
set up a tiny cross—oh, but it was long ago.
credits
from Hyperborean Folklore,
released June 17, 2022
license
all rights reserved
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I, Voidhanger Records Italy
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