Elena Vare

I write songs that remember what the world forgets.
Poet • Songwriter • Idealist
🎵 Streaming everywhere

[Elena Vare @vare_elena]

😅

[Elena Vare @vare_elena]

“The first step to knowledge is to know that we are ignorant, and to seek for truth is to confess that we are in darkness.”

[Elena Vare @vare_elena]

Sagan’s quiet warning was this: the universe was never arranged for our comfort - that conviction is anthropocentrism’s oldest trick, and chauvinism its enforcement arm. What we call vulnerability isn’t incidental to that error. It’s the mechanism. Decade after decade, the same trap reopens - not because the universe is hostile, but because we keep mistaking our own reflection for its design.

[Elena Vare @vare_elena]

The Garden Without Birds

In one abandoned garden, where
not even birds remember song,
the leaves go drowning here and there
like letters left unread too long.
It seems that even hell must be
more lively: there, they burn and scream.
Here silence is a barren tree,
and even dead men cannot dream.
And yet this garden, void of God,
was drawing me, I don't know why.
I paused there on the threshold sod
as at a house the world passed by.
I quietly unlatch the gate
and take my steps, and move ahead.
The road is dim and desolate,
and chill and shiver start to spread.
Along the path, on benches, sit
the people with their lowered eyes.
The water cans are rust and grit,
but in their palms a bright world lies:
it shines on each, but warms no one -
a stranger's summer, someone's grass.
They scroll on faster, never done,
blind to the garden past the glass.
I call to them - they do not hear.
Here each one is his judge, his king,
and writes a prayer for his own ear,
his god, his jester, everything.
In a dry fountain, coin-like, lay
a darkened pair of shears. Close by,
an old man in a coat of clay
kept raking leaves without a sigh.
"What did they do to end up so?"
"No one is punished here," he said.
"They dropped in for a minute, though,
and stuck - and settled in instead.
No one had forced them. They sat down
and swam, unbidden, in the net.
They meant to live - but watched; they've grown
so silent, singing they forget.
Their weddings, children, faces, days
are kept in clouds, far out of sight;
their arms have no one to embrace -
their hands have rooted in the light."
"And God? Did He abandon them?"
"Not He," the old man said. "Not He.
He set us here to guard each stem -
we fled to glass, to effigy.
You seek Him in the endless feed
that circles, running day by day -
but He is here, in growing seed,
in hands that water, and that stay."
He passed me then the rusty shears,
and in my hand I saw it shine:
the same sly light that jerks and veers,
a fish that trembles on the line.
I turned the light off. Instantly
I heard the garden: rustle, crack.
And not for anyone to see,
I cut the deadwood from its back.
And there, beneath the leaves' decay,
deep down, where nothing seemed to grow,
a green shoot, though they looked away,
had grown - no likes, in silence, slow.
I understood: it was not dead.
It waited not for signs, but touch.
Like some half-faded leaf, unread,
it needs one word, one line - not much.
I knelt. The garden, as before,
was hushed; no bird had sung in years.
Then, though I knew no hymns of yore,
I sang - and silence lent its ears.
I laid my palms upon the ground -
still warm, as if it knew my name.
And in the boughs, wings stirred - a sound.
The others left. But I - I came. E.V. #speakingpoetry

[🎼🌺Music Love♥️ @ThoNg676733]

The timeless melody of Ennio Morricone, beautifully expressed through the soulful sound of the oboe, offers a moment of peace amid the rush of everyday life.

[Elena Vare @vare_elena]

Lately, I've had a hard time taking any of it seriously: life, people, politicians. I remember a man once told me, 'You are a woman with no faith.' I just smiled and danced to 'Say It Better.' #diarist

P.S. Under the spreading chestnut tree I sold you and you sold me:
There lie they, and here lie we
Under the spreading chestnut tree.

George Orwell, 1984

[Elena Vare @vare_elena]

My dad has always loved jazz, so I wrote the lyrics and created this song especially for him. “ What a wonder was she “.

P. S. I think we need a bit more jazz in this world.

[Elena Vare @vare_elena]

My favorite kind of vehicle 😅

[Elena Vare @vare_elena]

My mother's hands are with me still, braiding calm into a restless mind. #motherslove

[Elena Vare @vare_elena]

"Beware of believers, for they have gods who forgive them everything; and beware of unbelievers too, for they have no god to forbid them anything at all."
Zoe laughed, and then stopped laughing rather abruptly, as one does on catching sight of oneself in a mirror one had not known was hanging on the wall.
"That's a cruel little sentence," she said. "It flatters no one, and it seems to have been written by someone who walked into a crowded room, looked at every face in it, and found no one who could be trusted with the whole weight of their own freedom. Is that what you believe, or only what your world has taught you to say at dinner?"
"In my world it is less a belief than a working procedure," he said, with the dry smile that she had learned was his way of shielding something. "I have sat across tables from men who go to church every Sunday and from men who regard the very idea of God as a weakness of the lower orders, and I can assure you that I have never been able to tell from their faith, or from their lack of it, which of them would cut my throat. The believer sins on Saturday because confession is waiting on Sunday, and the unbeliever shrugs at cruelty because the universe keeps no ledger, and it has always seemed to me that they are not opposites at all, only two travellers who have found different roads to the same comfortable inn, where the conscience is no longer obliged to stand alone and answer for itself."
"And you?" she asked. "Which road did you take to the inn?"
He did not answer at once, and she saw that the question had gone further in than she had meant it to.
"You'll remember that Dostoevsky let Ivan Karamazov say that without God everything is permitted," he said at last, "and the clever young men of every generation have been quoting it ever since as if it were a licence. But they forget what happened to Ivan, who believed he had freed himself from all that and was then slowly torn apart by the very conscience he had declared he no longer possessed. I have always thought that was the real point of the book, and I confess that I have sometimes felt rather like Ivan myself, a man who has excellent arguments for permitting himself everything and who nevertheless lies awake over the things he has done, and over some of the things he has not."
Zoe stopped walking and looked out at the water, where a single gull was letting the wind carry it without the slightest effort, as if it had long ago made its peace with whatever forces held it up.
"I don't think goodness comes down from heaven," she said slowly, "or rises up out of its emptiness either. I think it grows in a much humbler place, in the slow soil of memory and empathy, in the willingness to feel another person's pain moving through your own body like a change in the weather. In my work I put my hands on people who are hurting, and after a while you can't pretend not to know what they feel, and once you know it you can't simply decide that it doesn't matter. I've known believers whose faith made them gentler every year, because they took forgiveness seriously enough to want to deserve it, and I've known unbelievers whose kindness was fierce and tender precisely because they understood that if no one is watching, then everything depends on us."
"If no one is watching," Kaplan repeated quietly, "then everything depends on us."… E.V.

Neutrino Serenade #momentsfrommynovel

[Elena Vare @vare_elena]

Sometimes her fragile sensitivity was such that everything external caused her pain and easily brought her to tears. But then she would again radiate a quiet, barely perceptible glow of solitary happiness, and anyone who saw this felt how difficult it was to give anything to this beautiful, strange woman and to mean anything to her.

Hermann Hesse

[Elena Vare @vare_elena]

https://t.co/vpTT94c7o2

Released

[Elena Vare @vare_elena]

https://t.co/bv57mIpp78

All alone or in twos, the ones who really love you
Walk up and down outside the wall
Some hand in hand, some gather together in bands
The bleeding hearts and the artists make their stand
And when they've given you their all
Some stagger and fall, after all it's not easy
Banging your heart against some mad bugger's wall…

[Elena Vare @vare_elena]

https://t.co/aSR1KqyJlk

❤️

[Elena Vare @vare_elena]

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