Heroes and Villains, and the foolish little-boy-in-me who follows them too!

[I’ve been felled by a silly little Flu the past week and I do promise to check-up on all my talented blogger friends and their artistic endeavours hopefully by tomorrow.  In the meantime, since the annual epic quest to retrieve that most famous of silver chalices looms near; and since the boy in me still demands his presence to be foolishly felt during such a time; and my Black & Gold came oh so very very close to drinking from Lord Stanley’s famously shining cup last year, I thought I’d break away from all my usual silly dialecticalness for a brief moment and instead embed a few videos.


The first was CBC’s last-year opening playoff montage accompanied by the sounds of one very excellent rock band.  I must say, there’s really nothing quite like gallant heroes jousting against dastardly puck-stealing villains, or swashbuckling swordsmen doing battle with net-hoarding armored ogres! Valhalla anyone?  The second one PLEASE start it at the 4:20 mark.  There’s a ridiculous reason for this(The whole video is terrific, and the first part is good, so if you feel inclined certainly do watch).  Ridiculous reasons can be motives you know.  😉  Perhaps my delightful readers, known or unbeknownst to this video’s creator, there’s something else hidden below it’s immediate surface besides greedy owners and pampered players, or ridiculous ideologies, or just a mere celebration of a sport…perhaps, just perhaps, there’s something of a deeper nature…or perhaps I’m just being a silly boy  ;).







Such a powerfully evoking sentiment in poetic verse by the extraordinarily talented ‘Flameinthesnow’.


A train departs from Korosten
heavy with grain from chernozem,
squeals to a halt at Jitomir,
shadows approach the engineer.

They douse the blinking lanterns first,
garrote the guards and seize the train,
shunting it onto a siding,
chanting and stamping, brave Hutsuls.

Latches–flung open–doors unsealed,
sacks and crates fly from hand to hand,
curtains are torn, metal screeches,
hammers clang, all that shifts is stripped.

Never to Kyiv will this train glide,
not without throttle, pins or brakes,
wheels, or valves of bronze and copper,
nor will it serve the Moskali.

Taken in vengeance for their loss–
a bow long strung, golodomor–
Hutsuls, that engine was a life–
sadly granted, a raided corpse.

And yet a marvel haunts these woods:
eased from a coppice, Niavka,
singing, touches the cold iron,
where rose stars blossom in green moss.

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