Tío, que me han pillao

Últimamente, bandas de indie folk como Beirut, Fleet Foxes, etc, han estado dominando mis playlists. La mayoría son  americanas o canadienses, pero hay de todos lados. Russian Red (Lourdes y cia.) son una banda española que ha venido creciendo del 2008 para acá. Seabear son islandeses y tienen desde el 2006. Aunque Seabear tiene un poquito más de material, las dos bandas apenas acaban de sacar su segundo disco, Fuerteventura de Russian Red y We Built A Fire de Seabear. A mi parecer, Seabear estan un poquito más pulidos, aunque a las rolas del Fuerteventura ya se les nota más producción y son menos melancólicas. Ahí al rato hago mi reseña del Fuerteventura lol.
Estas dos rolas, son mis favoritas de sus primeros discos, I Love Your Glasses y The Ghost That Carried Us Away, respectivamente. Y pues soy fans, qué más puedo decir?

The Greatest Victory

"A man may conquer a million men in battle, but one who conquers himself is indeed the greatest of conquerors."

- Sakyamuni Buddha, Dharmapada 103

Dos haikus

El caminante
me llamarán a mí.
Primer chubasco

Olor a crisantemos.
Y en Nara, viejas
imágenes del Buddha

- Matsuo Basho

The Grey Rider and the Battle of the Dale

Este es un esayo corto, flagrantemente inspirado en la mitología de J.R.R. Tolkien. Lo escribí hace ya algunos años para una clase de literatura inglesa, y hoy es rescatado de mi folder de escritos and stuff.

It was an early grey spring morning that still clung to winter. At the break of dawn a fine mist set on a dale riddled with broken blades and arrow shafts. The field lay motionless and silent. Bodies of man and horse alike covered the ground. None moved, save a lonely figure clad in grey. He rose slowly, and as he looked upon the field, his stern face changed to one of anguish and despair.

Broken spears and cloven shield laid fallen beneath his feet. The empty quiver at his back and the dull, dry stains upon his tattered cloak made it clear he had been in the thick of battle, yet he lived and rose among the fallen. As he stood up, beneath his cloak, the rings of a once-bright coat of mail glinted faintly, greeting the first of the sun's rays. And there at his waist, hung his sword still in its scabbard. It was as if it had never seen the dark of battle. Unsheathing the blade, now visibly marred by slight stains of dried blood, he looked up above at the coming dawn and his lips drew a dubious smile. In a dry, broken voice he shouted: “How did it come to this!?”

A grave but gentle voice spoke behind him, “Why does the Grey Rider lose heart?” 

 The sun was setting in the horizon. Two men crossed a wide river ford and rode swiftly into a forest bordering the vast plain from whence they came. They were moderately armed and on light mounts. They approached what seemed to be a watch tower high up on a tree.

A man moved in the tower and yelled out, “What news from east of the Ford?” The two riders quickly dismounted and approached the outpost. They seemed to be scouts. The man in the tower descended to them and demanded for news again.

One of the riders, in a calm yet ominous manner answered, “They come. A great horde of Easterlings is advancing towards us as we speak. They will reach the Ford by tomorrow at nightfall.” Quickly, the man of the tower climbed up again. He lit a beacon and sounded a horn. Soon several others were heard in the distance responding to his call. The alarm was thus sounded and the land made ready for war.

            Early in the morning of the next day, several men were gathered in a great wooden hall. It was generally used for feasts and celebrations, but as of late it had been naught but a grave council room. The men gathered there were strong and noble, but a dark cloud troubled their minds. They were heavily armed. They wore hauberks of bright mail and heavy scale. Great helms of the finest craft were set upon their brows, and sharp blades hung from their belts. Everyone who could ride and wield a spear, a sword, or a bow had been summoned, the scouts and watchmen included. Little was the help that could be counted on from friendly outside lands.

“Are the hosts ready?” An old, yet strong man of proud bearing addressed the others, “We will ride and meet the Easterlings before they reach the Ford.”

One of the men answered, “My lord, Mithrohir has not arrived yet.”

 “He will come,” answered their lord, Eomund, “Ready the horses, we ride before noon.”

Suddenly the gates of the great hall were thrown open, and in came a hooded man clad in grey. The color of his cloak was difficult to perceive; it seemed to shimmer in a dark, silvery hue. Bright mail could be seen beneath it. A smooth, strong longbow and a quiver full of sharp arrows hung from his back. A long, sheathed sword was at his side. He spoke with authority and great sincerity, “The host is ready milord. The Grey Rider is honored to ride among you.”

            A great host of men, nearly three thousand strong, was gathered outside in the courtyard of the fortress hall and in the nearby countryside. They were anxious. Many talked; many others occupied themselves with their swords and spears. They were all on horseback. Infantry was no use here, speed was needed.

 Lord Eomund, the nobles, and the Grey Rider, Mithrohir in the elven tongue, mounted their horses and prepared to ride. Horns were sounded and the distracted riders managed and wheeled their horses with great ease. They were soon organized into companies and they moved as one. The host rode hard and fast to the southeast. The falling sun shone upon their spears and helms, and they glittered among the dust created by the horses’ pace. The Host reached the edge of the forest at dusk. In the dale beyond the Ford, the Easterlings awaited the Rohirrim and the coming darkness. Tired as they were, the Riders fought valiantly, but they were vastly outnumbered. The confusion that ensued was bloody and dark. The battle lasted long into the cold and moonless night.

            In the pale morning that still clung to the night, a small group of riders returned to the battlefield. It was lifeless save for a haggard man who rose among the dead. The riders were the lord’s men, with Eomund himself. He dismounted and approached the lonely man, “Why does Mithrohir despair? We have taken the field, the Easterlings are routed.”

Stars - Your Ex-Lover Is Dead

There's one thing I want to say, so I'll be brave
You were what I wanted
I gave what I gave
I'm not sorry I met you
I'm not sorry it's over
I'm not sorry there's nothing to save

Pero qué señora rola. Stars es una excelente banda de indie pop de Toronto. Para ser 100% honestos, tenía rato de no escucharlos, pero salen en el soudtrack de una película que acabo de ver, Day Dream Nation, y pues se anexaron un poco a mi biblioteca musical.