Galvanor da Camelot (Lino Lavorgna)
Ho teso corde da campanile a campanile, ghirlande da finestra a finestra, catene d'oro da stella a stella, e danzo. www.lavorgna.it

BOBBY SANDS

Mercoledì 3 maggio 2006
"Le radici profonde non stonano – Speciale Bobby Sands"
www.radioalzozero.net


Bobby Sands nasce nel 1954 nella periferia settentrionale di Belfast. A diciott’anni entra nell’IRA. Dopo un primo arresto nel 1972, ritorna in carcere nel 1976, con una condanna a 14 anni malgrado le mancanze di prove.
L’11 marzo 1981 inizia uno sciopero della fame che avrà un notevole impatto sull’opinione pubblica mondiale soprattutto dopo che, nel mese di aprile, Sands viene eletto nelle liste del Sinn Fèin per la contea di Farmanagh. Nonostante il sostegno popolare e l’interessamento diretto del Vaticano, l’allora primo ministro britannico Margareth Thatcher rifiuta il dialogo con i detenuti in sciopero. Sands muore il 5 maggio 1981, dopo 65 giorni di sciopero della fame.

 

"Le Radici profonde non stonano" è un programma di musica celtica e della tradizione in onda tutti i mercoledì, sempre alle ore 21, sulla web radio: www.radioalzozero.net 

 

 

The Rhythm Of Time

 There’s an inner thing in every man,
Do you know this thing my friend?
It has withstood the blows of a million years,
And will do so to the end.
It was born when time did not exist,
And it grew up out of life,
It cut down evil’s strangling vines
,
Like a slashing searing knife.
It lit fires when fires were not,
And burnt the mind of man,
Tempering leandened hearts to steel,
From the time that time began.

It wept by the waters of

Babylon ,
And when all men were a loss,
It screeched in writhing agony,
And it hung bleeding from the Cross.
It died in Rome by lion and sword,
And in defiant cruel array,
When the deathly word was ‘Spartacus’
Along with

Appian Way .
It marched with Wat the Tyler’s poor,
And frightened lord and king,
And it was emblazoned in their deathly stare,
As e’er a living thing.
It smiled in holy innocence,
Before conquistadors of old,
So meek and tame and unaware,
Of the deathly power of gold.
It burst forth through pitiful

Paris streets,
And stormed the old Bastille,
And marched upon the serpent’s head,
And crushed it ‘neath its heel.
It died in blood on Buffalo Plains,
And starved by moons of rain,
Its heart was buried in

Wounded Knee ,
But it will come to rise again.
It screamed aloud by Kerry lakes,
As it was knelt upon the ground,
And it died in great defiance,
As they coldly shot it down.
It is found in every light of hope,
It knows no bounds nor space
It has risen in red and black and white,
It is there in every race.
It lies in the hearts of heroes dead,
It screams in tyrants’ eyes,

It has reached the peak of mountains high,
It comes searing ‘cross the skies.
It lights the dark of this prison cell,
It thunders forth its might,
It is ‘the undauntable thought’, my friend,
That thought that says ‘I’m right!’

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