ECHOES OF EDEN

{Starting 2/9/12 : BLOOD WILL TELL will be FREE for 5 days!}

http://www.amazon.com/BLOOD-WILL-TELL-ebook/dp/B0050219BW

My blood center is down a man, so I was called to deliver blood to the only hospital servicing Cameron Parish.

Once again I set out on the Creole Nature Trail, one of the last surviving wildernesses in America.

I call it "the Last Exit to Eden."

Before I left the outskirts of Man's domain, I got gas at a station appropriately named FOUR CORNERS.

My half-Lakota mother would have smiled at the name. In Lakota myth there is a spiritual power in the crossroads spinning off to the four directions.

She often told me that the four directions have to be in balance for all to be well with the world.

From today's headlines, I would have to say they are a bit out of kilter.

Often in Lakota myth, the directions are represented by animals. And on this trip, I met my share. I felt much like my own character, Hibbs the cub with no clue.


http://www.amazon.com/BEAR-TWO-SHADOWS-ebook/dp/B004MDLWD0

A lone dog stood sentinal in the front yard of a nearby home as I pulled away. He stood so still that for a second I thought him a bronze sculpture.

But he turned his happy, tongue-lolling muzzle towards me as if to say, "I wish I were going with you." I waved a happy hello and good-bye in one gesture and went on my way.

I passed a majestic ranch, bordered by long, white rails. A small lake was just a few feet away. A bass jumped up in search of an elusive fly.

A peace grew within me. The four directions of my spirit were in balance at least.

For a brief moment, I found myself at the end of a long convoy of parish vechicles off to some construction site. And I felt a wave of resentment much like the mountain men of old must have felt upon seeing pioneer families moving into "their" wilderness.

I laughed at myself. How could the mountain men or I own the wilderness which existed long before we were born and would go on long after Man was only a radioactive memory?

Just before the long, winding S curve I love to drive, I spotted a single horse grazing in a blaze of marigolds. He looked up as I passed as if to snort,

"Do you mind? I'm trying to have lunch here." Then, he went back to grazing.

As I pulled under the canopy of Cypress trees onto the straightaway, my old friends were waiting for me :

the small herd of horses who love to pace my van in a friendly race through the clover and marigolds. They happily took up the game once again.

This time they had company : a lone great Egret who soared above them on silent, mighty currents of wind. It swooped down and around in long, slow, graceful motions of its huge wings.

I put down my window and drank in the sound of the gusting wind, the pounding of the hooves, and the haunting cry of far-off hawks.

I sadly parted from my equine friends as I started up the high, lonely bridge that arched and twisted up into the clouds like the feathered serpent of Aztec myth.

At its peak, I looked out across a landscape that seemed devoid of Man.

It didn't seemed to mind.

As I hit the bottom of the bridge, I looked for my alligator acquaintance from the last trip. But he was off in search of more accessible meals than a human in a speeding van.

But I did spot a distant cousin :

a huge tortoise slowly making its way across the road far ahead of me.

I looked in my rearview mirror. Another car would be here before my shelled friend would make it across.

I pulled over to the shoulder of the road, and I got out and lifted him all the way to the other side. As I walked away from him, he twisted his head my way as if to say,

"You're a decent sort ... for a two-legged."

As I continued on my lonely way, the quiet was broken by a huge flock of great Egrets playing tag with one another. They spread across the vast blue sky from horizon to horizon.

And without warning, the flock enveloped me in its midst as the graceful, white birds darted down, welcoming me to their game. But, alas, I was rooted to the ground, and so they left me to waddle along the road in solitude.

And it seemed as if I heard the ghostly voice of The Turquoise Woman from Lakota myth and my mother's bedside tales :

"You Two-Leggeds are so foolish. Solitude? Here? I am ablaze with life all around you. You are never alone, never unwatched."

A scary gust of wind shuddered my van just as I was traveling down the most narrow section of the trail, rippling waters from both edges of the road lapping up just inches from the side of my vehicle.

I tugged on my wheel, and I felt a pressure on my van, steering me away from the grasp of the waters back to the center of the road.

I seemed to hear ghostly laughter, "Not your time just yet, little Lakota. You still make me laugh.

And you save my turtles."

I nodded to the endless depths of the blue sky and whispered, "Thank you."

Just then, a red-winged hawk swooped across the road far ahead of me. I took it to be The Turquoise Woman saying, "You're welcome."



***


I've wanted to see a movie of JOHN CARTER OF MARS since I was a little boy, curled up on my bed, reading his adventures in thumb-worn paperbacks.

A HOSPITAL ON STILTS?

Ever see a hospital on stilts?

You could have yesterday ...

if you had driven with me down what I call "the Last Exit to Eden" :

The Creole Nature Trail.

I don't often drive to the small rural hospital at the end of its winding roads. When I do, I take the opportunity to enjoy the sights and sounds of this last taste of wilderness that civilization affords us.

We've talked about symbolism yesterday. The first stop of my journey was laden with symbolism : the gas station situated at a lonely crossroads, appropriately named "4 Corners."

My half-Lakota mother told me often of the spiritual power in the crossroads spinning off to the four directions, of the personal impact of our individual decisions, and of the crossroads of my birth.

I was born in a hospital built at the hub of a crossroads. As a young child, I listened intently to the story Mother repeatedly told me : that for each child born at the crossroads, an angel and a demon came for possession of the child's soul.

"Mine, too, Mama?"

"Yes, little one. Yours, too."

I remember swallowing hard. "What happened?"

"They fought, fought hard. At first they used fiery swords."

"Wow."

"But each was as fast as the other. Then, they wrestled. But both kept slipping out of each other's holds. Finally, they began to arm wrestle, pitting the strength of their spirits one against the other."

This time I couldn't swallow. "Who won, Mama?"

"Neither."

"Neither?"

"They are fighting inside you still."

"Right now?"

"Yes, right now. But soon one will win."

"Who?"

"The one you choose, little one."

"I choose the angel!"

"Not with words, Roland. With actions. With each dark action, the demon grows stronger, the angel weaker. With each hard choice of doing what is right, the angel grows stronger, the demon angrier."

She ruffled the hair on my head lightly. "Choose wisely, son. Choose wisely."

Sometimes in that dark night of the soul we all must face at times, I can feel them struggling still. And then, it is oh, so hard to choose wisely. But I try. I try.

But we began this post by talking about a hospital on stilts. They are more huge concrete pylons than stilts ... yet, that little boy from long ago is still alive inside me.

Hurricane Rita scoured all evidence of Man from Cameron Parish with its gouging fingers of wind, hurled debris, and tidal waves of surging water. So all the structures are now built on stilts of wood or concrete. It is so odd to pass a mobile home, towering some 20 feet in the air ... so tall it takes three tiers of stairs to reach its front door.

Not that there are many structures to be found further along these lonely roads. And down the misty stretch of concrete, there is a long, winding "S" of a curve under towering Cypress tree sentinels that I love to drive. It is beautiful beyond my meager power to describe.

After pulling out on the straightway, I looked for my old friends who seem to know when I am coming : a small herd of wild horses. And I was not disappointed. There they were, alert heads up, tails swishing in expectation.

They happily took up our old game : racing alongside my van ... which I slowed to stretch out our fun. I had a new friend for the second time in my wanderings here : a lone egret sailing gracefully above us as if curious at this odd ritual between part-Lakota and horses.

It actually swooped down in front of my van and around it in an elegant dance of grace and beauty. And as I always do, I rolled down my windows to drink in the sounds of the pounding hooves, the gusting winds, and the haunting cry of distant hunting hawks. But as with all moments of breath-stealing beauty, it was over, the horses pulling off to other games, other interests. I waved a bitter-sweet goodbye to them and drove onto the strangest bridge I have ever driven over.

It sweeps high up, twirls like an "S", then slowly descends to a road with water and isolated islands of vegetation as far as you can see. At its apex, the clouds were dark and brooding as if Estanatlehi, The Turquoise Woman of Lakota myth, was showing me her anger at Man's ugly, oily destruction of her Gulf waters.

As I reached the top, I slowed, taking in the scalp-tingling view of what the world must have appeared before Man, and I seemed to hear The Turquoise Woman murmur in my ear : "Be careful, Little Lakota. Veer not to the left nor to the right. For eight lonely miles there is no shoulder to this tiny road. Break down here, and I will show you all the mercy BP is showing me."

The second largest population of alligators in the U.S. reside here, so it was not unexpected to see one rise up from the waters beside the small road at the foot of the bridge. Our eyes met. Two species regarded each other in a moment brief yet enlongated as strange encounters sometimes are.

Its yellow-flecked slit eyes were cold windows into reptilian memories of times when Man was yet to be and scaled monsters walked the earth as savage kings. But I sped by, and the spell was shattered. The alligator slipped silently beneath the dark waters, searching for easier prey.

I finally made it to the sprawling "hospital on stilts" as the little boy inside me insists on calling it. It was eerie and quiet. I remembered the last time I'd been there.

A mother and her little girl had walked out of the hospital. I waved at the little girl and winked. Catching me by surprise, the girl giggled and ran staight to me, wrapping her tiny arms around my waist in a happy hug. The mother came up to me, shaking her head in wonder.

"It must be that you have such kind eyes," she said.

I smiled at the memory and walked into my hospital on stilts.
**************************
And here is the song I listened to over and over again on my blood run along the last exit to Eden :


And in keeping with showing movie trailers for movies that I think might be fun :

LAST EXIT TO EDEN

For an unusual third time in a month, I was called to deliver blood to the only hospital servicing Cameron Parish. And so once again I set out on the Creole Nature Trail, one of the last surviving wildernesses in America. I call it "the Last Exit to Eden."

Before I left the outskirts of Man's domain, I got gas at a station appropriately named FOUR CORNERS. My half-Lakota mother would have smiled at the name. In Lakota myth there is a spiritual power in the crossroads spinning off to the four directions. She often told me that the four directions have to be in balance for all to be well with the world. From today's headlines, I would have to say they are at a kilter.

Often in Lakota myth, the directions are represented by animals. And on this trip, I met my share. I felt much like my own character, Hibbs the cub with no clue.

A lone dog stood sentinal in the front yard of a nearby home as I pulled away. He stood so still that for a second I thought him a bronze sculpture. But he turned his happy, tongue-lolling muzzle towards me as if to say, "I wish I were going with you." I waved a happy hello and good-bye in one gesture and went on my way.

I passed a majestic ranch, bordered by long, white rails. A small lake was just a few feet away. A bass jumped up in search of an elusive fly. A peace grew within me. The four directions of my spirit were in balance at least.

For a brief moment, I found myself at the end of a long convoy of parish vechicles off to some construction site. And I felt a wave of resentment much like the mountain men of old must have felt upon seeing pioneer families moving into "their" wilderness. I laughed at myself. How could the mountain men or I own the wilderness which existed long before we were born and would go on long after Man was only a radioactive memory?

Just before the long, winding S curve I love to drive, I spotted a single horse grazing in a blaze of marigolds. He looked up as I passed as if to snort, "Do you mind? I'm trying to have lunch here." Then, he went back to grazing.

As I pulled under the canopy of Cypress trees onto the straightaway, my old friends were waiting for me : the small herd of horses who love to pace my van in a friendly race through the clover and marigolds. They happily took up the game once again. This time they had company : a lone great Egret who soared above them on silent, mighty currents of wind. It swooped down and around in long, slow, graceful motions of its huge wings. I put down my window and drank in the sound of the gusting wind, the pounding of the hooves, and the haunting cry of far-off hawks.

I sadly parted from my equine friends as I started up the high, lonely bridge that arched and twisted up into the clouds like the feathered serpent of Aztec myth. At its peak, I looked out across a landscape that seemed devoid of Man. It didn't seemed to mind. As I hit the bottom of the bridge, I looked for my alligator acquaintance from the last trip. But he was off in search of more accessible meals than a human in a speeding van.

But I did spot a distant cousin : a huge tortoise slowly making its way across the road far ahead of me. I looked in my rearview mirror. Another car would be here before my shelled friend would make it across. I pulled over to the shoulder of the road, and I got out and lifted him all the way to the other side. As I walked away from him, he twisted his head my way as if to say, "You're a decent sort ... for a human."

As I continued on my lonely way, the quiet was broken by a huge flock of great Egrets playing tag with one another. They spread across the vast blue sky from horizon to horizon. And without warning, the flock enveloped me in its midst as the graceful, white birds darted down, welcoming me to their game. But, alas, I was rooted to the ground, and so they left me to waddle along the road.

And it seemed as if I heard the ghostly voice of The Turquoise Woman from Lakota myth and my mother's bedside tales : "You Two-Leggeds are so foolish. Solitude? Here? I am ablaze with life all around you. You are never alone, never unwatched."

A scary gust of wind shuddered my van just as I was traveling down the most narrow section of the trail, rippling waters from both edges of the road lapping up just inches from the side of my vehicle. I tugged on my wheel, and I felt a pressure on my van, steering me away from the grasp of the waters back to the center of the road.

I seemed to hear ghostly laughter, "Not your time just yet, little Lakota. You still make me laugh. And you save my turtles."

I nodded to the endless depths of the blue sky and whispered, "Thank you."

Just then, a red-winged hawk swooped across the road far ahead of me. I took it to be The Turquoise Woman saying, "You're welcome."

One of the tunes I was listening to on my trip was WHISPERS IN THE MOONLIGHT. And if you've been paying attention, you know who is whispering.

THE TEACHING TALES OF HIBBS THE CUB WITH NO CLUE

Once again I drove through one of America's last wildernesses, the Creole Nature Trail. I had to bring two units of rare blood to the only hospital in Cameron Parish. Dozens of species of birds sang their serenade to the half-dozing sun as it slumbered in the mid-morning spring sky. They seemed to follow me as I meandered along the long, winding S curve. Moss-hung cypress trees towered over me as I pulled out onto a long straight stretch. Horses, running free, joyously paced my van as they raced amidst bright groves of marigolds. They veered off with other games to play.

I smiled at the sight of their shrinking forms. My van climbed up a high, lonely bridge. From its apex, it offered a civilization-free vista stretching from horizon to horizon. I could almost hear the Turquoise Woman, from my mother's long-ago tales, whisper that soon Man would destroy himself, and the whole world would look like this. "Soon" is different to the Turquoise Woman, to whom the Ice Ages were but inconvenient winters. And judging from the headlines, I did not doubt that Mankind might very well do himself in.

As I reached the bottom of the bridge onto the straightaway, I flicked my eyes from the canal to my right to the swamp to my left. The green head of an alligator rose above the still waters. Reptillian eyes met mine. Twin alien, amber worlds gazed back at me. Slit eyes studied me in a moment frozen in time. They revealed the narrowing infinity between half-closed windows to a time when Man was not even a murmur on the winds. The alligator's eyes looked through me, far past me down distant vistas when reptilian giants walked this swamp. Its eyes seemed to wander down the ages, dwelling on secrets lost to science. Did it see colors of life beyond my comprehension, feel impulses alien to human reason? It slid back under the green waters as it realized I was not going to crash and give it a change in diet.

The Cooltrane Quartet was playing "Should I stay or should I go?" I decided that "go" seemed a wise decision to make. I drove on as the birds above me swept down as if to gaze at this invader into their realm of peace and beauty. "Don't fish this spot," I advised them. A scarlet Vermillion Flycather gave a high-pitched reply as if to assure me its kind had fished here long before I was born.

Seeing this wilderness on either side of me, I thought of the wilderness in my novel, HIBBS THE BEAR WITH TWO SHADOWS, born of the tales my mother told me as I lay shivering in my bed, growing weaker and weaker from the double pneumonia that almost killed me that terrible winter. I remembered the teaching lessons she had told me of Hibbs when he had been a cub. Hibbs, the cub with no clue, she had called him. One in particular came to mind : when, as an exile in ancient Ireland, Hibbs remembers back to a time when he walked with the Turquoise Woman through the dread Valley of the Shadow ...

*********************

Hibbs' scalp suddenly prickled. Yet again, Hibbs' present had been swallowed up by his past. No longer was he in Eire nor even a grown bear. And instead of the wet smell of spring, the crisp chill of Autumn tickled his wrinkling nose. But he was still walking beside a long-striding Estanatlehi.

It was his first week in the Valley of the Shadow -- long before he knew it well enough to be cautious of what lay within its dark corners. And he wasn't exactly walking beside GrandMother. Rather he was bouncing all around her, filled with the energy and wonder of all young cubs.

The Turquoise Woman was frowning at him as he skipped and leapt in a circle around her. "I hate to see you so sad."

"Oh, GrandMother," giggled Hibbs. "You're so funny."

Estanatlehi smiled faint. "I do believe that you are the first to say that of me."

"Truly? Wheee! I'm the first. The very first. I bet I'm the first bear to explore this wonderful valley, too."

A thin arch of lightning rose skeptically over one turquoise eye. "Wonderful? I do believe that once again you are the first to call this valley that as well."

Hibbs did a hand-stand as he bounced around The Turquoise Woman. "What a day of firsts! It's great to be an explorer, isn't it?"

Estanatlehi sighed, "True, there is something to be said for heading into unexplored territory --- Uffff!"

Hibbs had collided into her side as he miscalculated his next hand-stand. She stopped suddenly and gestured. The young cub froze upside down in mid-air. Twin turquoise eyes narrowed as she bent and placed her face right next to the face of the frightened bear.

"But there is also something to be said for knowing where you are going."

"Wanunhecun, (mistake in Lakota)," muttered Hibbs out of a dust dry throat.

Turquoise eyes narrowed further, and Hibbs managed to get out the one word, "S-Sorry."

Snow suddenly started to swirl around the upside-down cub. "Better."

Hibbs let out a sigh of relief. Of course, he had misunderstood her as he so often did. And The Turquoise Woman reached out and sharply tweaked his nose.

"N-Not better?"

Estanatlehi murmured in words of winter, "No. Not 'sorry.' But 'better.'"

Hibbs' eyes widened. "Oh, you mean -- don't be sorry. Be better."

Long ivory fingers gestrued gracefully, and the cub landed on his head. Hard. But Hibbs merely giggled and rolled to his feet, hugging the startled Turquoise Woman.

"Got it right that time didn't I, GrandMother?"

And feeling the warmth of the young cub's trusting embrace about her legs, Estanatlehi lost all her former anger. She reached down and gently ruffled the top of Hibbs's furry head. All the tension left her voice as she spoke.

"Yes."

Her eyes sparkled with something that rarely touched them -- amusement. "And no."

Hibbs looked up with such nose-wrinkling puzzlement that Estanatlehi had to laugh. "How can it be both 'yes' and 'no' at the same time, GrandMother?"

This time her fingers were gentle as she tweaked his nose. "Oh, Little One, sometimes it appears that your whole life is both 'Yes' and 'No.'"

"Truly?"

"Truly."

She reached down and gently tugged on his small right ear. "Come, and I will show you."

Though he felt like he would burst from just simply plodding along, Hibbs forced himself to walk beside GrandMother. His steps were so small compared to her long strides though that he happily found it was necessary to skip to keep up. Estanatlehi shook her head in wry amusement.

"This path is much different in summer than it is now in Autumn. These gentle slopes, so pleasant to walk upon in summer, turn slippery and dangerous with winter snows."

Hibbs squinted this way and that as he tried to imagine the trees and grass about him covered with the magic of first snowfall. The brittle leaves of Autumn tickled the bottom of his bare feet, and he fought a giggle. A hawk cawed high overhead, and the young cub strained to make it out. But it flew high into the clouds too quickly for him to pick it out against the utter blue of the sky.

Estanatlehi tugged a bit sharper on his ear to snare his ever-wandering attention. "Yet in winter, we could safely walk over this very spot where in summer rattlesnakes love to hide."

"Yikes!," squealed Hibbs, slamming hard into Estanatlehi's left leg as he leapt in fright from the imagined attack of slumbering rattlesnakes rudely awakened by scampering bear feet.

The Turquoise Woman sharply gestured with long ivory fingers, whose tips sizzled with sparks of black death. Yelping in fear and surprise, Hibbs was lifted bodily high in the air by the threads of Life until his eyes stared unhappily straight into eyes which had blasted the very flesh from the bones of Lakota warriors foolish enough to anger her.

"Does the air feel like summer to you?"

"I know it is Autumn, but --"

Turquoise eyes narrowed dangerously. "Autumn. Not summer. So by my very words, you know you are safe."

Hibbs swallowed hard and managed to get out, "You wouldn't say that if you were on my side of your eyes."

Estanatlehi stiffened, then laughed long and deep. "Oh, Little One, whatever did I do before you?"

As he was lowered gently to the dry leaves, Hibbs rubbed the back of his neck uncomfortably. "Probably walked without getting your feet stepped on."

Her head cocked slightly, and long, cold fingers gently ruffled the fur on the top of his head. "But I never laughed. Never. I believe a bruised toe or two is a small price for me to pay."

She tugged sharp on his right ear. "Now, what have you learned from all this?"

Hibbs looked up lovingly into her face and wanted so hard not to see it grow cold again. He thought and thought and thought. The obvious answer would only raise storm clouds again. An eyebrow of living lightning rose slowly.

Snakes in summer. Slippery tumbles in winter. The same path. His furry brow wrinkled as his tiny eyes squinted in hard thought. His eyes suddenly widened, and he smiled big.

"Different seasons make for different paths, even on the same spot."

The eyebrow of lightning kept rising, and Hibbs stuttered, "U-Uh, and -- and --- I guess that means that no one walks the same path twice even though it is the same road."

Hibbs heaved a sigh of relief as Estanatlehi's full lips slowly smiled. "I believe the end of the world must be near."

"Wh-What?"

Full lips struggled to be sober and lost. "It is written : there shall be plagues, floods, and famines. Little Hibbs will actually learn a lesson. Then shall the End come."

"Oh, GrandMother, you scared me."

She gently stroked the top of his head. "It is a natural talent."

Hibbs couldn't think of anything to say to that which wouldn't end up with him becoming even more scared, so he just hugged GrandMother's legs. Icy fingers patted his cheek. Hibbs smiled wide. For once, he had chosen the right path.

And abruptly, Hibbs was back in the present. And yes, he was still smiling but it was a sad smile, nonetheless, with echoes of loss and beckoning darkness. He looked to GrandMother and saw her lips twisting up in the same smile.

"The right path," he whispered.

Estanatlehi's hair of living lightning shivered as she nodded. "So you still remember?"

"I remember each of our walks, GrandMother."

His forehead wrinkled along with his nose as he said low, "No one walks the same path twice -- even if it is the same road. Were you trying to tell me just now that even though I will walk the same unexplored territory as this other, I do not have to share his fate -- because I am different than he?"

Estanatlehi nodded even more slowly. "Yes."
*************************************************

I hope you like my tale. Here's the tune I hummed along the Creole Nature Trail. Have a great week.

THE BELL-BEAT OF WINGS ABOVE MY HEAD

In the outer reaches of Southwest Louisiana lies one of the nation's last great wildernesses : the Creole Nature Trail. As a blood courier I am priviledged to travel it as my blood center services the lone hospital on the Cameron coast. It has been awhile since last I drove those secluded trails where the ghosts of Jean Lafitte and other privateers seem to peer at me as I drive by.

The second largest population of alligators in the U.S. reside here, floating along canals or slipping beneath the water at my passing. Overhead 300 species of bird look down amused at me as I dwaddle in my little wagon of clumsy steel and rubber. As I said earlier, it has been two years since last I drove these weaving trails amidst the cypress. Hurricane Rita scoured Cameron clean of habitations, including the hospital. Hurricane Audrey reaped a terrible toll in life last century. Why then do these natives rebuild?

Simple.

It is home.

The blood and bone of parents, grandparents, loved ones, and long cherished ancestors lie in this soil. That and it becomes a part of you, of who you are. Their roots are deep in this land. And like I said ... it is home.

It is why my character, Samuel McCord, stays in his jazz club in New Orleans. In 1815, he lost his family to the Comanche. His poet's soul and his scholar's mind made him an uncomfortable fit in the Texas Rangers. When Baroness Micaela Pontalba built him the apartment building in the French Quarter in 1848 as thanks for saving her life, the rootless McCord suddenly found himself with a place to call his own. He simply named his apartment "Casa" {Home.} When he lost his heart to the mysterious Meilori Shinseen and wed her in 1854, he started calling it "Meilori's." It meant the same to him, for in his heart Meilori was his home.

In 2005, he still stays in the enchanted jazz club since he refuses to give up the only home he has known in his adult life. With Meilori having left him seven years earlier, the club's heart is gone as is his own. But McCord refuses to let go of hope and the dream that someday Meilori will re-enter the swinging doors to his club and slip back into his arms.

At the moment, I am listening to "The Truth Beneath The Rose" by Within Temptation, a Dutch Gothic rock band. Yes, I do listen to rock, bloggers. They have sold ten million albums worldwide. The song I'm listening to is currently being used in commercials for THE TUDORS, season 3. A unique video of it is on YouTube.com which uses footage from THE DARK KNIGHT with the stirring song. Here it is :