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Soft Deep - Melancholy (Original Mix)


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In a world where amnesia has become commonplace, a solitary Greek man named Aris (Aris Servetalis) tries to rebuild his life after the spontaneous loss of his memory. Aris is a quiet, secretive soul with soft eyes and a palpable sense of melancholy.


Once, as they sat by their evening fire, there silently enteredInto the little camp an Indian woman, whose featuresWore deep traces of sorrow, and patience as great as her sorrow.She was a Shawnee woman returning home to her people,From the far-off hunting-grounds of the cruel Camanches,Where her Canadian husband, a Coureur-des-Bois, had been murdered.Touched were their hearts at her story, and warmest and friendliest welcomeGave they, with words of cheer, and she sat and feasted among themOn the buffalo-meat and the venison cooked on the embers.But when their meal was done, and Basil and all his companions,Worn with the long day's march and the chase of the deer and the bison,Stretched themselves on the ground, and slept where the quivering fire-lightFlashed on their swarthy cheeks, and their forms wrapped up in their blanketsThen at the door of Evangeline's tent she sat and repeatedSlowly, with soft, low voice, and the charm of her Indian accent,All the tale of her love, with its pleasures, and pains, and reverses.Much Evangeline wept at the tale, and to know that anotherHapless heart like her own had loved and had been disappointed.Moved to the depths of her soul by pity and woman's compassion,Yet in her sorrow pleased that one who had suffered was near her,She in turn related her love and all its disasters.Mute with wonder the Shawnee sat, and when she had endedStill was mute; but at length, as if a mysterious horrorPassed through her brain, she spake, and repeated the tale of the Mowis;Mowis, the bridegroom of snow, who won and wedded a maiden,But, when the morning came, arose and passed from the wigwam,Fading and melting away and dissolving into the sunshine,Till she beheld him no more, though she followed far into the forest.Then, in those sweet, low tones, that seemed like a weird incantation,Told she the tale of the fair Lilinau, who was wooed by a phantom,That, through the pines o'er her father's lodge, in the hush of the twilight,Breathed like the evening wind, and whispered love to the maiden,Till she followed his green and waving plume through the forest,And nevermore returned, nor was seen again by her people.Silent with wonder and strange surprise, Evangeline listenedTo the soft flow of her magical words, till the region around herSeemed like enchanted ground, and her swarthy guest the enchantress.Slowly over the tops of the Ozark Mountains the moon rose,Lighting the little tent, and with a mysterious splendorTouching the sombre leaves, and embracing and filling the woodland.With a delicious sound the brook rushed by, and the branchesSwayed and sighed overhead in scarcely audible whispers.Filled with the thoughts of love was Evangeline's heart, but a secret,Subtile sense crept in of pain and indefinite terror,As the cold, poisonous snake creeps into the nest of the swallow.It was no earthly fear. A breath from the region of spiritsSeemed to float in the air of night; and she felt for a momentThat, like the Indian maid, she, too, was pursuing a phantom.With this thought she slept, and the fear and the phantom had vanished. 59ce067264






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