The Enlightened

by Johan Troch

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Percussion and drum-software, piano and keyboards, fretless bass and guitars, mixing and producing by Johan Troch.
Atmospherics by Eric Hopton.
Vocals by Katy Theodossiou
Flugelhorn by Steve Dillard.
Recitements by Tom O'Bedlam.

© 2015 Adagio Productions


released January 18, 2015

My gratitude goes to Eric Hopton for his wonderful sounds,
Tom O'Bedlam for his recitements on 'Evening Thoughts' part one and two.
Steve Dillard for his Flugelhorn play on 'Evening Thoughts' part one.
You can listen to Eric Hopton's album "Jai Yen" on Bandcamp.
Or his sounds on:
Cover-photo by Eva Troch / cover-art by Johan Troch



all rights reserved


Johan Troch Belgium

Belgian composer Johan Troch is best known now for his
instrumental and avant-garde compositions.
His work contains a voyage of personal inputs that recalls also his deepest feelings and emotions into music.

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Track Name: Evening Thoughts (part one)
A child said, What is the grass? fetching it to me with full hands;
How could I answer the child? . . . . I do not know what it is any more than he.

I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green stuff woven.

Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord,
A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropped,
Bearing the owner's name someway in the corners, that we may see and remark,
and say Whose?

Or I guess the grass is itself a child . . . . the produced babe of the vegetation.

Or I guess it is a uniform hieroglyphic,
And it means, Sprouting alike in broad zones and narrow zones,
Growing among black folks as among white,
Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Congressman, Cuff, I give them the same, I receive them the
Track Name: Evening Thoughts (part two)
And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves.

Tenderly will I use you curling grass,
It may be you transpire from the breasts of young men,
It may be if I had known them I would have loved them;
It may be you are from old people and from women, and from offspring taken soon
out of their mothers' laps,
And here you are the mothers' laps.

This grass is very dark to be from the white heads of old mothers,
Darker than the colorless beards of old men,
Dark to come from under the faint red roofs of mouths.

O I perceive after all so many uttering tongues!
And I perceive they do not come from the roofs of mouths
for nothing.

I wish I could translate the hints about the dead young men and women,
And the hints about old men and mothers, and the offspring taken soon out of their
What do you think has become of the young and old men?
And what do you think has become of the women and children?

They are alive and well somewhere;
The smallest sprout shows there is really no death,
And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait at the end to arrest it,
And ceased the moment life appeared.

All goes onward and outward . . . . and nothing collapses,
And to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier.

I believe a leave of grass is no less, that a journey work of the stars.
I think i could turn and live with animals.
the're so placid, and self-contained.
I stand and look at them long and long.
They do not sweat and whine about their condition.
They do not lie awake in the dark and weep for their sins.
They do not make me sick discussing their duty to God.
Not one is dissatisfied, not one is demented with the mania of owning things.
Not one kneels to another, nor to his kind that lived thousands of years ago.
Not one is respectable or unhappy over the earth.