I. The Bird Incarnating Song
Det er Vintertid; Jorden har et Sneelag, Luften er høi og klar, Træerne staae som hvide Koraller. Deilige er Naten.
The winter air is bright and cold. A sharp wind scattering the snow. Trees stand out like white coral against the night sky. By the open sea: a giant’s grave, and seated on the tomb, the spirit of the buried hero. “No-one sings the deeds of my life. Are they forgotten? Deeds of strength, of youthful courage, of valour and fearless adventure.”
Da greb den gamle Barde i Harpens Strænge.
Nearby, a tiny bird had heard these words, and as the unquiet spirit rose up and vanished, the tiny bird began to sing.
Døden er der ikke Liver vælder.
Then the bird soared away, over mountaintop and valley, over fields, and vast oceans. It sang, not only in praise of heroes, but of the land of its birth. Runes and old wives’ tales. And songs of love, so many and so warm, of Fidelity and Truth. Throughout time, as tales were told, there hovered nearby, this tiny bird. And now, perchance, he looks in on us, waiting to sing. While everything on earth is hidden away.

II. Hjertets Melodier — Melodies of the Heart, No.4
Min Tankes Tanke ene Du er vorden,
Du er mit Hjertes første Kærlighed,
Jeg elsker dig i Tid og Evighed!
My only thoughts have become of thee.
I love thee as nought else on earth.
I love thee throughout time and all eternity.

III. For the album of Madame Grove, née Fenger
Behind the lake at Sorø, with Ingemann and his wife, we enter the presbytery.
We hear the joyful voices of children.
Later, we walk through the forest of beech-trees, to the edge of the lake.
It is now the time of the full moon, and a nightingale is singing.

IV. Spørg Amagermo’er 1871
An old red-faced carrot, with dirt in his hair. Bold and shameless he proposed marriage to a sweet young carrot. She was a carrot from good family roots and spotless complexion. At the wedding the guests drank morning dew and ate fallen leaves and pollen. A large white cabbage bless’d the union, and turnips carried the bridal train. Beans and potatoes heartily sang, while herbs and nettles wilted in each other’s arms. The old carrot made a speech. Too long and lacking in humour. Mumbling, groaning, wheezing, on and on. While the young carrot stared wide-eyed, out beyond the horizon. She was not smiling. Then there was dancing. The old carrot removed his boots, and jumped about in a frenzy. Leaping. Spinning. Sliding. Then he fell, and broke in half, and died. The young carrot said ‘Ah…’, as her luck had changed. Now she was free to roam, free to swim in the soup, free to be gently nibbled. She was free, young and still fresh.

V. Hjertesuk af en udtjent Damekjole — Heartfelt sighs from thrown-out ladies’ clothing
Der var en Tid,
Det var de gode gamle Dage!
I gyldne Sale svandt min Blomstervaar,
Nu skal maaskee jeg snart i ‘Vartou’ bygge;
Hvor Krusemynterne bag Ruden staaer.
Alt dreier Hanen sig paa ‘Petri’ spiir,
Dog ei jeg døer jeg bliver jadet er den store Gaade.
There was a time. But the glory-days have vanished!
In gilded ‘salons’ my springtime-blush was lost.
And soon I will be in a home for ‘old folk’
Potted plants, tiny windows.
The brittle threads in me will snap. But if I do not die…
I will become…
Yes — I will only know that later on…

VI. Martsviolerne — Märzveilchen — March-violets
Der Himmel wölbt sich sich rein und blau,
der Reif stellt Blumen aus zur Schau.
Am Fenster prangt ein flimmernder Flor.
Ein Jüngling steht, ihn betrachtend, davor.
Und hinter den Blumen blühet noch gar ein blaues,
ein lächelndes Augen paar.
Märzveilchen, wie jener noch keine geseh’n!
Der Reif wird angehaucht, zergeh’n.
Eisblumen fangen zu schmelzen an,
und Gott sei gnädig dem jungen Mann.
The clear blue arching of the sky. Frost pricking blossoms from drops of dew.
A shimmering flower on the window-pane. A youth, waiting and watching.
Beyond the bloom he sees two smiling eyes
Dark, almost purple like March-violets. As lovely as any he had seen.
His breath will melt the thin layer of frost. The ice-flowers will evaporate.
Then, merciful Lord, protect him.

VII. Tyveknægten — Muttertraum — A mother’s dream
Die Mutter betet herzig, und schaut entzückt auf den schlummernden Kleinen. Er ruht in der Wiege so sanft un traut.
Ein Engel muss er ihr scheinen. Sie küsst ihn und herzt ihn sie hält sich kaum. Vergessen der irdischen Schmerzen,

De TRANSIT collectie is een initiatief van MATRIX [Centrum voor Nieuwe Muziek], in samenwerking met Festival Van Vlaanderen Vlaams-Brabant en met de steun van Stad Leuven.