“Hurry, the shepherd man, wizened and olden!
Go and wave your staff at him;
He has come to bury you
For claiming his fold.”
youtube.com/watch?v=JwFXUmVbsYI
Go and wave your staff at him;
He has come to bury you
For claiming his fold.”
youtube.com/watch?v=JwFXUmVbsYI
YouTube
Mellow Candle - Sheep Season
Mellow Candle - Sheep Season
Album "Swaddling Songs" (1972)
Album "Swaddling Songs" (1972)
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Forwarded from Disclose.tv
NEW - The UK has the most distressed population, with its mental health score ranking the 2nd lowest in the world now — Sapien Labs
@disclosetv
@disclosetv
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I saw the Lord sitting upon a throne, high and lifted up. Isaiah 6
youtube.com/watch?v=eiivuGkz8Ok&t=28s
youtube.com/watch?v=eiivuGkz8Ok&t=28s
YouTube
Bach - Mass in B minor BWV 232 (Karl Richter, 1969) - 12/14
22. Sanctus (Chorus)
23. Osanna in excelsis Deo (Chorus)
Gundula Janowitz, soprano
Hertha Töpper, alto
Horst R. Laubenthal, tenor
Hermann Prey, bass
Karl Richter, Münchener Bach Orchester & Chor
23. Osanna in excelsis Deo (Chorus)
Gundula Janowitz, soprano
Hertha Töpper, alto
Horst R. Laubenthal, tenor
Hermann Prey, bass
Karl Richter, Münchener Bach Orchester & Chor
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Forwarded from Mark Ritchie
“Viable” = “Legal”?
I’ve not seen the word used in this context before. Also interesting that it’s the BBC where I hear it first.
This word could signify another loosening of the legitimate constraints on police behaviour. That would be in line with everything we are learning about Human Rights Lawyer Keir Starmer.
I’ve not seen the word used in this context before. Also interesting that it’s the BBC where I hear it first.
This word could signify another loosening of the legitimate constraints on police behaviour. That would be in line with everything we are learning about Human Rights Lawyer Keir Starmer.
Forwarded from Battleground
Media is too big
VIEW IN TELEGRAM
Tonight on UK Column, I chat with Rachel Wilson about her book Occult Feminism and why women's liberation did nothing positive for women (or men).
ukcolumn.org | 7pm UK
ukcolumn.org | 7pm UK
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Forwarded from Susie Blue
The New Clearance #2
They come not now with fire and blade,
But dressed in green, with deals well made.
They speak of "rewilding", "climate goals",
Yet tear the heart from Highland souls.
No more the stalker tracks the hill,
His rifle cold, his bothy still.
The ghillie’s rod, the shepherd’s dog,
Lie idle in the creeping fog.
Peatlands fenced with steel and lies,
To sell the air to foreign skies.
Carbon stored and credits traded,
While lives and legacies are faded.
The red deer fall in bloody ranks,
Not for food, nor sport, nor thanks,
But culled like vermin, cast away,
So saplings might have room to sway.
No dance of hoof on ridge or scree,
Just silence now, for every tree.
A woodland rising, rich and green—
But bought by hands unseen, unclean.
The Danish tycoon, the Russian heir,
Buy glens like stocks with cold-eyed care.
They praise the wild, the noble land,
But never lift a working hand.
They do not speak the Gaelic tongue,
Nor know the songs our grandfolk sung.
Yet write the rules, and sign the lease,
And call it “progress,” “hope,” or “peace.”
The crofter’s roof caves in with rain,
The keeper’s track turns wild again.
The pub is shut, the school is bare—
What future grows when none live there?
They preach a “natural” rebirth,
But strip the land of rooted worth.
A hill is not a hill alone—
It's men and women, stone by stone.
This is no healing of the glen,
When land forgets the touch of men.
Greenwashed theft, a new disguise,
Of ancient grief in modern guise.
So mark this truth in storm and soil:
That land must live by native toil.
Let birch and beaver find their place—
But not at cost of the Highland race
With credit to Iain macKay
They come not now with fire and blade,
But dressed in green, with deals well made.
They speak of "rewilding", "climate goals",
Yet tear the heart from Highland souls.
No more the stalker tracks the hill,
His rifle cold, his bothy still.
The ghillie’s rod, the shepherd’s dog,
Lie idle in the creeping fog.
Peatlands fenced with steel and lies,
To sell the air to foreign skies.
Carbon stored and credits traded,
While lives and legacies are faded.
The red deer fall in bloody ranks,
Not for food, nor sport, nor thanks,
But culled like vermin, cast away,
So saplings might have room to sway.
No dance of hoof on ridge or scree,
Just silence now, for every tree.
A woodland rising, rich and green—
But bought by hands unseen, unclean.
The Danish tycoon, the Russian heir,
Buy glens like stocks with cold-eyed care.
They praise the wild, the noble land,
But never lift a working hand.
They do not speak the Gaelic tongue,
Nor know the songs our grandfolk sung.
Yet write the rules, and sign the lease,
And call it “progress,” “hope,” or “peace.”
The crofter’s roof caves in with rain,
The keeper’s track turns wild again.
The pub is shut, the school is bare—
What future grows when none live there?
They preach a “natural” rebirth,
But strip the land of rooted worth.
A hill is not a hill alone—
It's men and women, stone by stone.
This is no healing of the glen,
When land forgets the touch of men.
Greenwashed theft, a new disguise,
Of ancient grief in modern guise.
So mark this truth in storm and soil:
That land must live by native toil.
Let birch and beaver find their place—
But not at cost of the Highland race
With credit to Iain macKay
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