Song picture
Spring, poem by Daniel Simidor
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Song for Mezzo Soprano and piano, in Haitian Creole
jazz classical instrumental vocal opera orchestra chamber ballet
Artist picture
Composer for large-scale performance work, ballet and opera. Have written music for classical theatrical productions of Shakespeare, ("The Tempest," "The Twelft
Loren Lieberman is a native of Denver, Colorado, now living on the West Coast in California, where he is best known for his work as an actor in Classical and Shakespearean Theatre. He has a degree from Sonoma State University in Theatre Arts, and has been an Honor's Music Composition Student at the College of Marin, Santa Rosa Junior College, and at Sonoma State University. He has won an award for composition from the Redwood Empire Music Association. He has recently completed an opera in Russian, based on the novel by Alexander Solzhenitsyn, "Cancer Ward", (and of the same name), and is currently working on his fourth opera, based on the Classical Tragedy by Sophocles, "Oedipus the King," with a libretto in Ancient Greek. His interest in languages has shaped much of his artistic temperment, and he is self taught in Russian and Sanskrit, and has hopes to begin his next opera, Shakespeare's, "Romeo and Juliet," in Hindi.
Song Info
Genre
Classical • Opera
Charts
Peak #42
Peak in subgenre #3
Author
Daniel Simidor/Masaru Yonemitsu
Rights
adhikapokoya 2010
Uploaded
September 22, 2010
Track Files
MP3
MP3 2.9 MB • 128 kbps • 3:09
Story behind the song
The song is in Haitian Creole. The following translation is by Jack Hirschman and Boadiba.
Lyrics
Spring A spring afternoon, a lovely sky, bright sunshine. The long shadows of people strolling. When I look up, behind the cloud, a sky of blue indigo. Odds and ends, vendors, bikersa014 the suna019s warming even the druggies on the Lenox Avenue sidewalk. Past Harlem Hospital smashed-up, battered and windowless buildings all are washing themselves in a big puddle of sunlight. And while the Saint Francis churchbell gongs five oa019clock, a young woman, mouth gaping, crouches on the sidewalk; she vomits blood, she vomits bile. Then, without anyone noticing, spring drags itself off. The layer of blue paint is peeling from the sky. Harlem has tied its infected sores with a rag of sunlight full of holes, filth and bloodstains. Changes of season dona019t change anything. While Ia019m looking up at the sun and the moon side by side in the afternoon sky, an ambulance is dumping a patient on the street. Like a sick chicken shea019s twitching and fluttering in the sun (Ita019ll take some time before she dies). While Ia019m looking up at one, two, ten suns reflected in the Harlem Hospital windows my blinded eyes, my weakened senses dona019t see dona019t hear dona019t feel the people struggling in the steel dark prison --bellies empty, naked and under drubbinga014 for a piece of the star, a bit of justice.
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