Our Hairs from Saskadumy | ЦАЦКАДУМА by Kitz Willman

A falcon became sad at the sight of a populated city.
For they had left their winter post much earlier than most
but now snow still lay in the meadow and rivers push ice lest they freeze.
While poppies are blooming in cities.

But those were not poppies the falcon saw
That was the Kozak Olive six miles east of Zealandia
marching along headed to the depot.
Then its onward to Sheho.
Oh, that Kozak Olive was riding
but she barely passed the next plot before she was stopped
greeted by her mother,

Her mother pleaded for the young Kozak to come home,
“Come home!”
She had traveled graveled roads in a car with no tires.
She beckoned to her daughter,
“Daughter, my dearest ilk come home
and I will wash your hair til it’s smooth as silk
and I will braid the mane of your horse.
Braid the mane of your horse and wash your hair until it’s smooth as silk.
Oh, my ilk…”

And the daughter replied,
“Oh mother, wash your own hair. For our hair will be washed by the rains and dried by tempestuous winds.
Oh, our hair?!
Oh, our hair will be combed by dense brambles
and conditioned by sea and sun.
Oh mother, don’t be sad for me, because I know sorrow…
For my hetman is sending me south past Sheho tomorrow.
Sends me on a mission to Winnipeg and perhaps I may ask some people,
where they keep their teeth at night?
Where the fuck they keep their teeth at night?”

• Hip-Hop/Rap
• experimental hip-hop
• field recordings
• jazz hip hop
• weird rap
• Winnipeg