وَلَقَدْ خَلَقْنَا ٱلْإِنسَـٰنَ وَنَعْلَمُ مَا تُوَسْوِسُ بِهِۦ نَفْسُهُۥ ۖ وَنَحْنُ أَقْرَبُ إِلَيْهِ مِنْ حَبْلِ ٱلْوَرِيدِ
Ancient mat, never abandoned, of cadmium indigo and cinnabar warp and weft.
Listen, bronze malachite, statue of clay and bitumen sand.
Wait, finally, for your despoiling.
A ritual for percussion, keyboards, and stalagmitic and shadowy caverns.
Empty your pockets and chest.
Leave here what you possess, without exception.
What you possess is not what you will leave here: a jewel glows in your empty hands.
This voice of Shahrazād, aphonic and silent, speaks of nights and stars ground in a mortar.
Draw from it, stirring just slightly, for your inexhaustible desire.
This gust mixed with sand and saliva —of blood and priesthood— called revolution will never stop.
"Anyone who has stopped to reflect will have stumbled upon that sudden 'frequency' that brings you back at once to that moment, that smell, that taste."
"Our body is a spaceship and it often happens in the early afternoon that it moves on luminous trails, people!"
A wonderful musical melting pot, which Battiato would never replicate so well in a song of just 5 and a half minutes.
One of the most beautiful Italian albums of the ’70s. Insurmountable work of art.