Poetic ASMR's video: Poetic ASMR - Des S ngers Fluch Whispered German poem with head massage sounds on the Blue Yeti

Hi there ☺️ This week's poem is called "Des Sängers Fluch" (The Minstrel's Curse) by Ludwig Uhland. This is my great-grandfather's favourite poem. He would always cry when listening to it or reciting it. It's about two minstrels 🎼 who try to stir the heart of cruel a king 👑 with their songs. Yet, the king becomes enraged and slays one of them. Consequently, the surviving minstrel lays a curse on the king. I've added head massage sounds with the Blue Yeti in the background. Here's an English translation of the text: "The Minstrel's Curse" by Ludwig Uhland There stood, in bygone ages, a castle proud and high, Seen from the deep blue ocean far-gleaming in the sky. And all around a garden, sweet-flowering in the dew And living water gurgling in sprays of rainbow-hue. There sat a king right haughty, the lord of hill and dale, Upon his throne he sat him, so gloomy and so pale. For what he thinks is horror, and in his eye is rage, And what he speaks is torture, and blood is on his page. Two bards of noble bearing came to this keep one day. The one had golden ringlets, the other's hair was gray; Whilst, harp in hand, the elder on his good steed did ride. His young and lithesome comrade strode gaily by his side. The old man spake in warning: "Now ready with thy lay. Think on our songs most touching, raise high thy tones to-day. Gather thy strength together, strike pain as well as joy, It shall be ours to soften that heart of stone, my boy." Within the columned palace now the twain bards are seen, And on the throne are sitting the monarch and his queen; The king, in splendour awful, as when the North-lights dance. The queen, benign and gentle as silver full-moon's glance. Then with a wondrous measure the old man swept the strings, And fuller yet and fuller upon the ear it rings. And clear and deep as heaven streamed forth a voice still higher. The old man's song in pauses sounds like a ghostly choir. Of love, that time of rapture, and of the joyous spring, Of freedom and of honour, of truth and faith they sing, To stir the mortal bosom they sing of all that's sweet, And man's heart to ennoble, their strains in union meet. The crowd of courtiers round them forget their ribaldry, And the king's scornful warriors to God bend low the knee; The queen with joy and sorrow commingling in her breast, Throws to the bards beneath her the rosebud she caressed, "Ye have seduced my people, dare ye entice my spouse ?" Shrieks the rage-trembling monarch, and fierce revenge he vows, He draws his sword which flashing pierces the stripling's breast: The life-stream gushes upward, the melody's at rest. As if by tempest scattered is all the throng that's nigh. In the old arms the stripling breathes forth his parting sigh; He folds him in his mantle, he sets him on his steed, He binds him on it upright, forth from the keep to lead. Before the lofty gateway the old man's footsteps rest, His ancient harp he seizes, of every harp the best. He dashes it to pieces against the marble wall, His voice resounds prophetic through garden and through hall: "Woe to thee, haughty palace! let ne'er sweet tones again Reecho round thy columns, nor harp's nor song's soft strain, Let there be sighs and groanings and timorous tramp of slaves. Till the avenging spirit tread on your mouldering graves. Woe to ye, balmy gardens! smiling in May's fair light, Gaze on the youth departed, defaced, bereft of sight; Be withered then and wasted; let every spring be dry, For desolate and blasted from henceforth ye shall lie. Woe to thee, cursed murderer! of bard and song the bane, For wreaths of blood-stained glory thy striving shall be vain, Thy name shall be forgotten, buried in endless gloom, Void as the last death-rattle, the harbinger of doom." The old man finished speaking : and heaven heard his call, Prostrate the walls are lying, in ruins is the hall. One column marks the vestige of splendour that is past, But that, already crumbling, must fall alone at last. Around, instead of gardens, a waste and barren heath. No tree sheds shade, no fountain gurgles the sand beneath, No legend of that monarch sings the heroic verse; 'Uprooted and forgotten' — "That is the Minstrel's Curse." The translation was taken from The Poems of Uhland, translated by William Collett Sandars, 1869, p.163-168. The original German poem was taken from the following website: https://bit.ly/LudwigUhland Video and sound were created by me and edited with iMovie, DaVinci Resolve, and Audacity. ____________________ Find me on Tingles: https://tingles.app.link/Poetic-ASMR My YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/c/PoeticASMR My Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/poeticasmr/ My Goodreads profile: https://www.goodreads.com/PoeticASMR My Tumblr: https://poeticasmr.tumblr.com My Reddit: https://www.reddit.com/user/MissPoetic Find me on ASMRtags: https://asmrtags.com/c/Poetic%20ASMR Play Miramagia with me: http://bit.ly/PlayMiramagia ____________________ Sleep tight 😴