The Children Of The Hive

(Older Self – Younger Self by Gwyllm Llwydd)

On The Radio Free Earthrites: Bill Laswell – Ohm Shanti

Children Of The Hive: This term came to me the other night. I like the flavour of it my mouth, and the images it produces, a cascade of emotive visions boil up from the depths, drenched with the waters of that inner sea. It has been summoning up my imagination on how to portray the ideas, and thoughts around it.

Ah…. Saturday. I have been running around like a chicken with his head cut off. Off with friends looking for a new door for their house, then back home, get ready, and out the door over to Nemo’s to talk art, and some of the hidden his/herstories of Magick in the late 60′s, and on. As I left their home I looked west across Portland –
-A moment in suspended time, images that coalesce: Gary Snyder blowing the conch to summon up the New Age at The Human Be-In, Tim Leary and Allen Ginsberg on 17th & Pearl stopping to talk to a wide-eyed 15 year old, the Manson Family women gathered out front of The Drog Store inviting people to go inside and see ‘Charlie’ perform, Sufi Sam Lewis twirling, with his students dancing around him… Sitting on Mt. Shasta with the sun rising and touching the peaks of the Siskiyous… and then, I am standing next to my Land Cruiser, looking to the west across Portland. Years collapse, and widen out, arcing across lifetimes and infinities of possibilities.-
I got in the LC, and drove home, feeling the tides of time wash to and fro within my being.
I have been working on the body of this entry for a few days. It ties up loose ends that have been rattling in my head for awhile. We have the Links back in action, and visit with Paul Bowles with quotes and a short story. I renew my fascination with Hildegard Von Bingen, and show off some of my new art. I hope you enjoy!
Bright Blessings,



On The Menu:

The Links

Paul Bowles Quotes

Hildegard Von Bingen, Spiritus Sanctus

In The Red Room – Paul Bowles

Poetry: Fragments-Aubrey Beardsley

Vision of Hildegard von Bingen-voice Hana Blochová-Kvinterna

Art: Gwyllm Llwydd

The Links:

Tribe of Ukrainian Fighting Women

Not Now, Playing Xbox…

10 Top Natural Disasters

Broken Robot Girl

Locust swarms ‘high’ on serotonin

Paul Bowles Quotes:

“We are all a little weird and life’s a little weird, and when we find someone whose weirdness is compatible with ours, we join up with them and fall in mutual weirdness and call it love.”

“Romance is thinking about your significant other, when you are supposed to be thinking about something else.”

“Death is always on the way, but the fact that you don’t know when it will arrive seems to take away from the finiteness of life. It’s that terrible precision that we hate so much. But because we don’t know, we get to think of life as an inexhaustible well. Yet everything happens a certain number of times, and a very small number, really. How many more times will you remember a certain afternoon of your childhood, some afternoon that’s so deeply a part of your being that you can’t even conceive of your life without it? Perhaps four or five times more. Perhaps not even. How many more times will you watch the full moon rise? Perhaps twenty. And yet it all seems limitless.”

— (The Sheltering Sky)

“There is a way to master silence

Control its curves, inhabit its dark corners

And listen to the hiss of time outside.”

“How many times his (Port’s) friends, envying him his life, had said to him: “Your life is so simple.” “Your life seems always to go in a straight line.” Whenever they had said the words he heard in them an implicit reproach: it is not difficult to build a straight road on a treeless plain. He felt that what they really meant to say was: “You have chosen the easiest terrain.” But if they elected to place obstacles in their own way-which they clearly did, encumbering themselves with every sort of unnecessary allegiance-that was no reason why they should object to his having simplified his life. So it was with a certain annoyance that he would say: “Everyone makes the life he wants. Right?” as though there were nothing further to be said.”

– (The Sheltering Sky)

“The sky hides the night behind it and shelters the people beneath from the horror that lies above.”

“The soul is the weariest part of the body.”

— (The Sheltering Sky)

Hildegard Von Bingen, Spiritus Sanctus

In The Red Room

by Paul Bowles

When I had a house in Sri Lanka, my parents came out one winter to see me. Originally I had felt some qualms about encouraging their visit. Any one of several things–the constant heat, the unaccustomed food and drinking water, even the presence of a leprosy clinic a quarter of a mile from the house might easily have an adverse effect on them in one way or another. But I had underestimated their resilience; they made a greater show of adaptability than I had thought possible, and seemed entirely content with everything. They claimed not to mind the lack of running water in the bathrooms, and regularly praised the curries prepared by Appuhamy, the resident cook. Both of them being in their seventies, they were not tempted by the more distant or inaccessible points of interest. It was enough for them to stay around the house reading, sleeping, taking twilight dips in the ocean, and going on short trips along the coast by hired car. If the driver stopped unexpectedly at a shrine to sacrifice a coconut, they were delighted, and if they came upon a group of elephants lumbering along the road, the car had to be parked some distance up ahead, so that they could watch them approach and file past. They had no interest in taking photographs, and this spared me what is perhaps the most taxing duty of cicerone: the repeated waits while the ritual between man and machine is observed. They were ideal guests.
Colombo, where all the people I knew lives, was less than a hundred miles away. Several times we went up for weekends, which I arranged with friends by telephone beforehand. There we had tea on the wide verandas of certain houses in Cinnamon Gardens, and sat at dinners with professors from the university, Protestant ministers, and assorted members of the government. (Many of the Sinhalese found it strange that I should call my parents by their first names, Dodd and Hannah; several of them inquired if I were actually their son or had been adopted.) These weekends in the city were hot and exhausting, and they were always happy to get back to the house, where they could change into comfortable clothing.
One Sunday not long before they were due to return to America, we decided to take in the horse races at Gintota, where there are also some botanical gardens that Hannah wanted to see. I engaged rooms at the New Oriental in Galle and we had lunch there before setting out.
As usual, the events were late in starting. It was the spectators, in any case, who were the focus of interest. The phalanx of women in their shot-silk saris moved Hannah to cries of delight. The races themselves were something of a disappointment. As we left the grounds, Dodd said with satisfaction: It’ll be good to get back to the hotel and relax.
But we were going to the botanical gardens, Hannan reminded him. I’d like to have just a peek at them.
Dodd was not eager. Those places cover a lot of territory, you know, he said.
We’ll look inside and come out again, she promised.
The hired car took us to the entrance. Dodd was tired, and as a result was having a certain amount of difficulty in walking. The last year or so I find my legs aren’t’ always doing exactly what I want ‘em to do, he explained.
You two amble along, Hannah told us. I’ll run up ahead and find out if there’s anything to see.
We stopped to look up at a clove tree; its powerful odor filled the air like a gas. When we turned to continue our walk, Hannah was no longer in sight. We went on under the high vegetation, around a curve in the path, looked ahead, and still there was no sign of her.
What does your mother think she’s doing? The first thing we know she’ll be lost.
She’s up ahead somewhere.
Soon, at the end of a short lane overhung by twisted lianas, we saw her, partially hidden by the gesticulating figure of a Sinhalese standing next to her.
What’s going on? Dodd hastened his steps. Run over there, he told me, and I started ahead, walking fast. Then I saw Hannah’s animated smile, and slowed my pace. She and the young man stood in front of a huge bank of brown spider orchids.
Ah! I thought we’d lost you, I said.
Look at these orchids. Aren’t they incredible?
Dodd came up, nodded at the young man, and examined the display of flowers. They look to me like skunk cabbage, he declared.
The young man broke into wild laughter. Dodd stared at him.
This young man has been telling me the history of the garden, Hannah began hurriedly. About the opposition to it, and how it finally came to be planted. It’s interesting.
The Sinhalese beamed triumphantly. He wore white flannels and a crimson blazer, and his sleek black hair gave off a metallic blue glint in the sunlight.
Ordinarily I steer a determined course away from the anonymous person who tries to engage me in conversation. This time it was too late; encouraged by Hannah, the stranger strolled beside her, back to the main path. Dodd and I exchanged a glance, shrugged, and began to follow along behind.
Somewhere up at the end of the gardens a pavilion had been built under the high rain trees. It had a veranda where a few sarong- draped men reclined in long chairs. The young man stopped walking. Now I invite you to a cold ginger beer.
Oh, Hannah said, at a loss. Well, yes. That would be nice. I’d welcome a chance to sit down.
Dodd peered at his wristwatch. I’ll pass up the beer, but I’ll sit and watch you.
We sat and looked out at the lush greenness. The young man’s conversation leapt from one subject to another; he seemed unable to follow any train of thought further than its inception. I put this down as a bad sign, and tried to tell from the inflections of Hannah’s voice whether she found him as disconcerting as I did.
Dodd was not listening. He found the heat of low-country Ceylon oppressive, and it was easy to see that he was tired. Thinking I might cover up the young man’s chatter, I turned to Dodd and began to talk about whatever came into my head: the resurgence of mask-making in Ambalangoda, devil-dancing, the high incidence of crime among the fishermen converted to Catholicism. Dodd listened, but did no more than move his head now and then in response.
Suddenly I heard the young man saying to Hannah: I have just the house for you. A godsend to fill your requirements. Very quiet and protected.
She laughed. Mercy, no! We’re not looking for a house. We’re only going to be here a few weeks more.
I looked hard at her, hoping she would take my glance as a warning against going on and mentioning the place where she was staying. The young man was not paying attention, in any case. Quite all right. You are not buying houses. But you should see this house and tell your friends. A superior investment, no doubt about that. Shall I introduce myself, please? Justus Gonzag, called Sonny by friends.
His smile, which was not a smile at all, gave me an unpleasant physical sensation.
Come anyway. A five-minute walk, guaranteed. He looked searchingly at Hannah. I intend to give you a book of poems. My own. Autographed for you with your name. That will make me very happy.
Oh, Hannan said, a note of dismay in her voice. Then she braced herself and smiled. That would be lovely. But you understand, we can’t stay more than a minute.
There was a silence. Dodd inquired plaintively: Can’t we go in the car, at least?
Impossible, sir. We are having a very narrow road. Car can’t get through. I am arranging in a jiffy. He called out. A waiter came up, and he addressed him in Sinhalese at some length. The man nodded and went inside. Your driver is now bringing your car to this gate. Very close by.
This was going a little too far. I asked him how he though anyone was going to know which car was ours.
No problem. I was prese
nt when you were leaving the Pontiac. Your driver is called Wickramasinghe. Up-country resident, most reliable. Down here people are hopeless.
I disliked him more each time he spoke. You’re not from around here? I asked him.
No, no! I’m a Colombo chap. These people are impossible scoundrels. Every one of the blighters has a knife in his belt, guaranteed.
When the waiter brought the check, he signed it with a rapid flourish and stood up. Shall we be going on to the house, then?
No one answered, but all three of us rose and reluctantly moved off with him in the direction of the exit gate. The hired car was there; Mr. Wickramasinghe saluted us from behind the wheel.
The afternoon heat had gone, leaving only a pocket here and there beneath the trees where the air was still. Originally the lane where we were walking had been wide enough to admit a bullock- car, but the vegetation encroaching on each side had narrowed it to little more than a footpath.
At the end of the lane were two concrete gateposts with no gate between them. We passed through, and went into a large compound bordered on two sides by ruined stables. With the exception of one small ell, the house was entirely hidden by high bushes and flowering trees. As we came to a doorway the young man stopped and turned to us, holding up one finger. No noises here, isn’t it? Only birds.
It was the hour when the birds begin to awaken from their daytime lethargy. An indeterminate twittering came from the trees. He lowered his finger and turned back to the door. Mornings they are singing. Now not.
Oh, it’s lovely, Hannah told him.
He led us through a series of dark empty rooms. Here the dhobi was washing the soiled clothing. This is the kitchen, you see? Ceylon style. Only the charcoal. My father was refusing paraffin and gas both. Even in Colombo.
We huddled in a short corridor while he opened a door, reached in, and flooded the space inside with blinding light. It was a small room, made to seem still smaller by having given glistening crimson walls and ceiling. Almost all the space was filled by a big bed with a satin coverlet of a slightly darker red. A row of straight-backed chairs stood along one wall. Sit down and be comfy, our host advised us.
We sat, staring at the bed and at the three framed pictures on the wall above its brass-spoked headboard: on the left a girl, in the middle our host, and on the right another young man. The portraits had the imprecision of passport photographs that have been enlarged to many times their original size.
Hannah coughed. She had nothing to say. The room gave off a cloying scent of ancient incense, as in a disused chapel. The feeling of absurdity I got from seeing us sitting there side by side, wedged in between the bed and the wall, was so powerful that it briefly paralyzed my mental processes. For once the young man was being silent; he sat stiffly, looking straight ahead, like someone at the theater.
Finally I had to say something. I turned to our host and asked him if he slept in this room. The question seemed to shock him. Here? he cried, as if the thing were inconceivable. No, no! This house is unoccupied. No one sleeping on the premises. Only a stout chap to watch out at night. Excuse me one moment.
He jumped up and hurried out of the room. We heard his footsteps echo in the corridor and then grow silent. From somewhere in the house there came the sonorous chiming of a grandfather’s clock; its comfortable sound made the shiny blood-colored cubicle even more remote and unlikely.
Dodd stirred uncomfortably in his chair; the bed was too close for him to cross his legs. As soon as he comes back, we go, he muttered.
He’s looking for the book, I imagine, said Hannah.
We waited a while. Then I said: Look. If he’s not back in two minutes, I move we just get up and leave. We can find out way out all right.
Hannah objected, saying it would be unpardonable.
Again we sat in silence, Dodd now shielding his eyes from the glare. When Sonny Gonzag returned, he was carrying a glass of water which he drank standing in the doorway. His expression had altered: he now looked preoccupied, and he was breathing heavily.
We slowly got to our feet, Hannah still looking expectant.
We are going, then? Come. With the empty glass still in his hand he turned off the lights, shut the door behind us, opened another, and led us quickly through a sumptuous room furnished with large divans, coromandel screens, and bronze Buddhas. We had no time to do more than glance from side to side as we followed him. As we went out through the front door, he called one peremptory word back into the house, presumably to the caretaker.
There was a wide unkempt lawn on this side, where a few clumps of high areca palms were being slowly strangled by the sheaths of philodendron roots and leaves that encased their trunks. Creepers had spread themselves unpleasantly over the tops of shrubs like the meshes of gigantic cobwebs. I knew that Hannah was thinking of snakes. She kept her eyes on the ground, stepping carefully from flagstone to flagstone as we followed the exterior of the house around to the stables, and thence out into the lane.
The swift twilight had come down. No one seemed disposed to speak. When we reached the car Mr. Wickramasinghe stood beside it.
Cheery-bye, then, and tell your friends to look for Sonny Gonzag when they are coming to Gintota. He offered his hand to Dodd first, then me, finally to Hannah, and turned away.
They were both very quiet on the way back to Galle. The road was narrow and the blinding lights of oncoming cars made them nervous. During dinner we made no mention of the afternoon.
At breakfast, on the veranda swept by the morning breeze, we felt sufficiently removed from the experience to discuss it. Hannah said: I kept waking up in the night and seeing that awful bed.
Dodd groaned.
I said it was like watching television without the sound. You saw everything, but you didn’t get what was going on.
The kid was completely non compos mentis. You could see that a mile away, Dodd declared.
Hannah was not listening. It must have been a maid’s room. But why would he take us there? I don’t know; there’s something terribly depressing about the whole thing. It makes me feel a little sick just to think about it. And that bed!
Well, stop thinking about it, then! Dodd told her. I for one am going to put it right out of my mind. He waited. I feel better already. Isn’t that the way the Buddhists do it?
The sunny holiday continued for a few weeks more, with longer trips now to the east, to Tissamaharana and the wild elephants in the Yala Preserve. We did not go to Colombo again until it was time for me to put them onto the plane.
The black weather of the monsoons was blowing in from the southwest as we drove up the coast. There was a violent downpour when we arrived in midafternoon at Mount Lavinia and checked into our rooms. The crashing of the waves outside my room was so loud that Dodd had to shut the windows in order to hear what we were saying.
I had taken advantage of the trip to Colombo to arrange a talk with my lawyer, a Telugu-speaking Indian. We were to meet in the bar at the Galleface, some miles up the coast. I’ll be back at six, I told Hannah. The rain had abated somewhat when I started out.
Damp winds moved through the lobby of the Galleface, but the smoky air in the bar was stirred only by fans. As I entered, the first person I noticed was Weston of the Chartered Bank. The lawyer had not yet come in, so I stood at the bar with Weston and ordered a whiskey.
Didn’t I see you in Gintota at the races last month? With an elderly couple?
I was there with my parents. I didn’t notice you.
I couldn’t tell. It was too far away. But I saw the same three people alter with a local character. What did you think of Sonny Gonzag?
I laughed. He dragged us off to his house.
You know
the story, I take it.
I shook my head.
The story, which he recounted with relish, began on the day after Gonzag’s wedding, when he stepped into a servant’s room and found his bride in bed with the friend who had been best man. How he happened to have a pistol with him was not explained, but he shot them both in the face, and later chopped their bodies into pieces. As Weston remarked: That sort of thing isn’t too uncommon, of course. But it was the trial that caused the scandal. Gonzag spent a few weeks in a mental hospital, and was discharged.
You can imagine, said Weston. Political excitement. The poor go to jail for a handful of rice, but the rich can kill with impunity, and that sort of thing. You still see references to the case in the press now and then.
I was thinking of the crimson blazer and the botanical gardens. No. I never heard about it, I said.
He’s mad as a hatter, but there he is, free to do whatever he feels like. And all he wants now is to get people into that house and show them the room where the great event took place. The more the merrier as far as he’s concerned.
I saw the Indian come into the bar. It’s unbelievable, but I believe it, I told Weston.
Then I turned to greet the lawyer, who immediately complained of the stale air in the bar. We sat and talked in the lounge.
I managed to get back to Mount Lavinia in time to bathe before dinner. As I lay in the tepid water, I tried to imagine the reactions of Hannah and Dodd when I told them what I had heard. I myself felt a solid satisfaction at knowing the rest of the story. But being old, they might well brood over it, working it up into an episode so unpleasant in retrospect that it stained the memory of their holiday. I still had not decided whether to tell them or not when I went to their room to take them down to dinner.
We sat as far away from the music as we could get. Hannah had dressed a little more elaborately than usual, and they both were speaking with more than their accustomed animation. I realized that they were happy to be returning to New York. Halfway through he meal they began to review what they considered the highlights of their visit. They mentioned the Temple of the Tooth, the pair of Bengal tiger cubs in Dehiwala which they had petted but regretfully declined to purchase, the Indonesian dinner on Mr. Bultjens’s lawn, where the myna bird had hopped over to Hannah and said: “Eat it up,” the cobra under the couch at Mrs. de Sylva’s tea party.
And that peculiar young man in the strange house, Hannah added meditatively.
Which one was that? asked Dodd, frowning as he tried to remember. Then it came to him. Oh, God, he muttered. Your special friend. He turned to me. Your mother certainly can pick ‘em.
Outside, the ocean roared. Hannah seemed lost in thought. I know what it was like! she exclaimed suddenly. It was like being shown around one of the temples by a bhikku. Isn’t that what they call them?
Dodd sniffed. Some temple! he chuckled.
No, I’m serious. That room had a particular meaning for him. It was like a sort of shrine.
I looked at her. She had got to the core without needing the details. I felt that, too, I said. Of course, there’s no way of knowing.
She smiled. Well, what you don’t know won’t hurt you.
I had heard her use the expression a hundred times without ever being able to understand what she meant by it, because it seemed so patently untrue. But for once it was apt. I nodded my head and said: That’s right.

(DMT Mantis – Gwyllm Llwydd)

Poetry: Fragments-Aubrey Beardsley

The Celestial Lover
A fragment of verse in prose
The Café Strelitz was almost empty.

Upon a hot midday in July,

Don Juan wandered into the Café Strelitz for his breakfast. I know not by what chance he had left the rest of the world to go that day to the Valdau races with[out] him. Whether in search of some adventure…

– – –

The most fashionable of Restaurants was white with empty tables, for the Prix d’Honneur was being run that afternoon at Valdau—magnificent waiters sat about in magnificent unruffled expectation of the telegrams from the racecourse and rose reluctantly when there came some demand for coffee or the addition.

The Ballad of a Barber

The Coiffing

The Coiffing
Here is the tale of Carrousel,

The barber of Meridian Street.

He cut, and coiffed, and shaved so well,

That all the world was at his feet.
The King, the Queen, and all the Court,

To no one else would trust their hair,

And reigning belles of every sort

Owed their successes to his care.
With carriage and with cabriolet

Daily Meridian Street was blocked,

Like bees about a bright bouquet

The beaux about his doorway flocked.
Such was his art he could with ease

Curl wit into the dullest face;

Or to a goddess of old Greece

Add a new wonder and a grace.
All powders, paints, and subtle dyes,

And costliest scents that men distil,

And rare pomades, forgot their price

And marvelled at his splendid skill.
The curling irons in his hand

Almost grew quick enough to speak,

The razor was a magic wand

That understood the softest cheek.
Yet with no pride his heart was moved;

He was so modest in his ways!

His daily task was all he loved,

And now and then a little praise.
An equal care he would bestow

On problems simple or complex;

And nobody had seen him show

A preference for either sex.
How came it then one summer day,

Coiffing the daughter of the King,

He lengthened out the least delay

And loitered in his hairdressing?
The Princess was a pretty child,

Thirteen years old, or thereabout.

She was as joyous and as wild

As spring flowers when the sun is out.
Her gold hair fell down to her feet

And hung about her pretty eyes;

She was as lyrical and sweet

As one of Schubert’s melodies.
Three times the barber curled a lock,

And thrice he straightened it again;

And twice the irons scorched her frock,

And twice he stumbled in her train.
His fingers lost their cunning quite,

His ivory combs obeyed no more;

Something or other dimmed his sight,

And moved mysteriously the floor.
He leant upon the toilet table,

His fingers fumbled in his breast;

He felt as foolish as a fable,

And feeble as a pointless jest.
He snatched a bottle of Cologne,

And broke the neck between his hands;

He felt as if he was alone,

And mighty as a king’s commands.
The Princess gave a little scream,

Carrousel’s cut was sharp and deep;

He left her softly as a dream

That leaves a sleeper to his sleep.
He left the room on pointed feet;

Smiling that things had gone so well.

They hanged him in Meridian Street.

You pray in vain for Carrousel.
1896. First published in The Savoy, No.3, July 1896.
Originally intended to be printed as an episode of Under the Hill, Beardsley’s poem was adversely criticised by Arthur Symons, the magazine’s literary editor. When he heard of Symons’s reaction, Beardsley wrote facetiously to Leonard Smithers: “I am horrified at what you tell me about ‘the Ballad’. I had no idea it was ‘poor’. For goodness’ sake print the poem under a pseudonym and separately from Under the Hill… What do you think of ‘Symons’ as a nom de plume?”

The Three Musicians – first version
Along the path that skirts the wood,

The three musicians wend their way,

Pleased with their thoughts, each other’s mood,

Franz Himmel’s latest roundelay,

The morning’s work, a new-found theme,

their breakfast and the summer day.
One’s a soprano, lightly frocked

In cool, white muslin that just shows

Her brown silk stockings gaily clocked,

Plump arms and elbows tipped with rose,

And frills of petticoats and things, and outlines

as the warm wind blows.
Beside her a slim, gracious boy

Hastens to mend her tresses’ fall,

And dies her favour to enjoy,

And dies for réclame and recall

At Paris and St. Petersburg, Vienna and St. James’s Hall.
The third’s a Polish Pianist

With big engagements everywhere,

A light heart and an iron wrist,

And shocks and shoals of yellow hair,

And fingers that can trill on sixths and fill beginners with despair.
The three musicians stroll along

And pluck the ears of ripened corn,

Break into odds and ends of song,

And mock the woods with Siegfried’s horn,

And fill the air with Gluck, and fill the tweeded tourist’s soul with scorn.

The Three Musicians

The Three Musicians – published version
The Polish genius lags behind,

And, with some poppies in his hand,

Picks out the strings and wood and wind

Of an imaginary band,

Enchanted that for once his men obey

his beat and understand.
The charming cantatrice reclines

And rests a moment where she sees

Her chateau’s roof that hotly shines

Amid the dusky summer trees,

And fans herself, half shuts her eyes, and smoothes

the frock about her knees.
The gracious boy is at her feet,

And weighs his courage with his chance;

His fears soon melt in noon-day heat.

The tourist gives a furious glance,

Red as his guide-book grows, moves on,

and offers up a prayer for France.

1895. First published in The Savoy, No.1, Jan 1896. Written during the Summer of 1895 at Arques-la-Bataille and in Dieppe. Arthur Symons described the verses as being “in their own way, a tour de force,” but peevishly added that they revealed only that Aubrey had succeeding “in doing what he certainly had no aptitude for doing.” According to a highly unlikely legend, the first version of the drawing made to accompany these verses was censored by Leonard Smithers, who is reputed to have thought the pose of the young man, with his hand upon the girl’s knee, too suggestive.

Vision of Hildegard von Bingen-voice Hana Blochová-Kvinterna


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