'Toybnshtile' – a new composition and production

And suddenly it is quiet.

The city is silenced, the roads are empty, no more people on the street.

And better you hear the rustle of the wind and the cooing of the pigeons.

'Toybnshtile' is a song about longing for contact and touch. And about the confrontation with yourself when everything stops.

How well this fit with the time we are all going through now. Because everything has come to an halt, you can find yourself or lose yourself. It brings you back to the essence: love for each other and attention for the delicate and fragile.

Let this time be a good time and marvel at the beautiful song of the birds

For this new composition I was inspired by the Yiddish poem of the same name by Mani Leyb (text below). I produced the song on my own. Everything in the song is performed by myself: the vocals, the choir and all instruments.

Together with my son Lucas I made an accompanying video clip that can be seen on my YouTube channel.

For more info see: https://lucettevandenberg.nl/music/toybn-shtile/

Yiddish lyrics:


toybnshtile, bloye ovnt-shtundn

shpreyt far mir mayn ovnt-troym tseshpreyter

itster… itster brenen royter, royter

mayne shtile royzn – mayne vundn.

itster shtarbt in gasn der gepilder;

trit un verter hilkhn shtiler, veykher,

oygn, benkendik nokh oygn, 

kukn bleykher, 

hent in hent gedrikte redn epes milder.

itster vert mayn benkshaft gold getsundn 

heyser vert mayn blut, mayn oyg vert breyter

itster… itster brenen royter, royter

mayne royte royzn – mayne vundn.

Dutch lyrics:


Duivenstille, blauwe avondschemer

Laat mijn avonddromen openbloeien

roder, roder zullen gloeien

mijn stille rozen – mijn wonden

zacht maar zeker, verstillen de straten

stap en woorden galmen zachter, weker

ogen zoeken naar ogen, worden bleker

zachte handen, liefdevol praten.

Ik dool langs de verstomde wegen,

veller brand mijn bloed, mijn blik wordt scherper

roder, roder schrijnen rode rozen

mijn hart met stille pijn doorregen.

English lyrics:


Hushed-doves, blue hour of dusk

Spread for me my evening dream still wider

Now … now burning red, even more red 

are my quiet roses—my wounds.

Now the racket on the street is dying;

Footsteps and words resound more gently, more softly, 

eyes yearning for eyes look paler,

Hands holding hands converse tenderly.

Now my longing is burning golden.

My blood gets hotter, my eyes wider! 

Now … burning red, even more red 

are my red roses—my wounds.

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