yarrow from backyard divine by orphanage
Tracklist
| 2. | yarrow | 5:28 |
Lyrics
[yarrow]
Rub your eyelids with yarrow and dream of cabbages picked from the grave of a man who had died young, buried in a great cloak of trimmed grass. The unchanging ground beneath him mirrors the pathology of lawns above, a contemporary medium devoted to loudly maintaining thresholds. No amount of rooftop libations will replace fallen ancestors; just like music, their whisperings and physical radiance have guided broken families to their graves. Their names resonate like a wall of oils: herbal correspondence which remains unbroken. Herbs, like people, have gender. A leaf held against the eyes before fire-walking or fire-eating can brighten them, inhaling sight so intensely that it resonates and spills into other senses. Bruised leaves strewn across a resting place with the left hand can be used to find libations, an infusion of fresh juice and powdered flowers, a little push to become quietly focused. Ritual can also become a distraction from the essential: to mimic the yarrow, or bury or burn it, is believed to give second sight; eyes sewn like pouches, vision smudged, unclear.
