Gryphon Trio and Nordic Voices: Lyrics and Translations

Jan. 28, 2026

Omaa Biindig / Her Inne

by Andrew Balfour (b. 1967)

Texts in Ojibwe and Norwegian

Jorda — Earth (Norwegian)
Her Inne — Here, Inside (Norwegian)
Ningaabii’anong — The West (Ojibwe)
Giiwedianong — The North (Ojibwe)
Waabanong — The East (Ojibwe)
Zhaawanong — The South (Ojibwe)
Omaa Biindig — Here, Inside (Ojibwe)

Solbøn

by Lasse Thoresen (b. 1949)

Text in Norwegian

Tru soli måtte skine
Yvi små bodni mine
Yvi topp, yvi tre
Yvi folk, yvi fe
Yvi åker og eng
Yvi hus og hjem
Og yvi jomfu Marias silkeseng

English Translation

Prayer to the sun
May the sun of faith shine
Over my small dwellings
Over treetop and tree
Over people and cattle
Over field and meadow
Over house and home
And over the Virgin Mary’s silk bed

Trois beaux oiseaux du Paradis

by Maurice Ravel (1875–1937)

Text in French

Trois beaux oiseaux du Paradis,
(Mon ami z-il est à la guerre),
Trois beaux oiseaux du Paradis,
Ont passé par ici.
Le premier était plus bleu que le ciel,
(Mon ami z-il est à la guerre),
Le second était couleur de neige,
Le troisième rouge vermeil.
« Beaux oiselets du Paradis,
(Mon ami z-il est à la guerre),
Beaux oiselets du Paradis,
Qu’apportez par ici ? »
« J’apporte un regard couleur d’azur,
(Ton ami z-il est à la guerre) »
« Et moi, sur beau front couleur de neige,
Un baiser dois mettre, encore plus pur. »
« Oiseau vermeil du Paradis,
(Mon ami z-il est à la guerre),
Oiseau vermeil du Paradis,
Que portez-vous ainsi ? »
« Un joli cœur tout cramoisi,
(Ton ami z-il est à la guerre). »
« Ha ! je sens mon cœur qui froidit…
Emportez-le aussi. »

English Translation

Three lovely birds from Paradise
Three beautiful birds from Paradise,
(My friend is at the wars),
Three beautiful birds from Paradise,
Have passed this way.
The first was bluer than the sky,
(My friend is at the wars),
The second was the colour of snow,
The third vermilion red.
“Beautiful little birds from Paradise,
(My friend is at the wars),
Beautiful little birds from Paradise,
What are you bringing here?”
“I bring a pair of blue eyes,
(Your friend is at the wars).”
“And I, upon your fair snowy brow,
Must place a still purer kiss.”
“Vermilion bird from Paradise,
(My friend is at the wars),
Vermilion bird from Paradise,
Tell me what you are bringing?”
“A pretty heart, all crimson,
(Your friend is at the wars).”
“Ah, I feel my heart growing cold…
Bear it away as well.”

…Знов Співатимуть Життя… (…Will Sing Life Again…) (2025)

by Bohdana Frolyak (b. 1968)
Poetry by Victoria Amelina

Text in Ukrainian

У весняне синє поле
Вийде жінка в чорній сукні
Імена сестер кричати
Наче птах в порожнє небо
Викричить усіх із себе
Ту, що відлетіла швидко
Ту, яка про смерть благала
Ту, що не спинила смерть
Ту, яка чекає досі
Ту, яка усе ще вірить
Ту, що сорок днів мовчить
Викричить їх всіх у землю
Наче біль засіє в полі
З болю та імен жіночих
Виростуть їй нові сестри
Знов співатимуть життя
Ну а що вона, ворона?
А вона навік в цім полі
Бо лиш крик її й тримає
Цих ластівок в повітрі
Як вона гукає
Всі по черзі імена?
У весняне синє поле
Вийде жінка в чорній сукні
Імена сестер кричати
Наче птах в порожнє небо
Виростуть їй нові сестри
Знов співатимуть життя

English Translation

In a bare blue springtime field
A woman in black dress stands,
Crying out her sisters’ names
Like a bird in an empty sky.
She’ll cry out each name out of herself:
The one who flew away too soon,
The one who begged to die,
The one who could not stop death,
The one who is still waiting,
The one who still believes,
The one who mourns in silence.
She’ll cry out each name into the ground,
As though sowing the field with pain.
From pain and the names of these women,
New sisters will grow from the earth,
And, again, will sing loudly of life.
But what about her, the crow?
She must stay in this field forever,
Because her cry is the only thing
That holds the swallows in the air.
Do you hear how she calls
Their names one by one?
In a bare blue springtime field
A woman in black dress stands,
Crying out her sisters’ names
Like a bird in an empty sky.
New sisters will grow from the earth,
And, again, will sing loudly of life.

Scar Tissue

by Jeffrey Ryan (b. 1962)
Poetry by Michael Redhill

III. Growth

A star probably still has light,
don’t doubt that herald, flying
at its own speed to glow here
on you. Starblown energy
charged with fire. Change is the
nursery of music, joy,
life and eternity. Sing it.

VIII. Recovery

Phosphatidylinositol
is central to metabolic
processes. It’s like a music
that plays under everything, and
no one knows it. It wounds without
the pleasure of a scar. I am
carried in my shadow like a
violin in its black case.

IX. Renewal

The maidens sang a holy song and
straight up the air went amazing sound!
A small child says, “I love you” and lilies
in the yard throw open the doors of
the heart. Accept Lord Mother/Father
the briefness of this life you’ve granted.
As proof of my love, I offer this.
Pity my voice burning in your mouth:
Eros comes nowhere near this bliss.

Bysjan, bysjan

by Frank Havrøy

Text in Norwegian

Bysjan, bysjan lite bån
Bysjan, bysjan lite bån, no skal bånet såvvå,
jenta stilt åt ramna gå, gåmål krok åt klåvvå.
Ute skin en ljøske blek, stjernerap og måne,
lyser opp i skauom te, dagen kjem te gråne.
Lyser opp og syner vei, stjernerap og måne,
for så mang en husvill krok, bysjan, bysjan båne.

English Translation

Hush, hush little child
Hush, hush little child, time to sleep,
the girl goes quietly to her bed,
the old one to the chamber.
Outside a pale light shines, shooting stars
and moonlight light up the forest until day begins to dawn.
Light up the way, starlight and moon,
for many a lost soul on the road, hush, hush child.

I Seraillets Have (In the Seraglio Garden)

by Wilhelm Stenhammar (1871–1927)

Text in Danish

Rosen sænker sit hoved tungt af dug og duft
Og pinjerne svaje så tyst og mat i lumre luft
Kilderne vælte det tunge sølv i døsig ro
Minareterne pege mod himlen op i tyrketro
Og halvmånen driver så jævnt afsted over det jævne blå
Og den kysser rosers og liljers flok, alle de blomster små
I seraillets have, i seraillets have

English Translation

The rose bows down its head, made heavy by dew and scent
And the pines sway softly, pale and still in the sultry air
The springs pour out their weight of silver, drowsy and calm
The minarets are pointing heavenward in faithful prayer
And the crescent moon drifts evenly across the even blue
Kissing roses, kissing lilies, every flower small
In the seraglio garden, in the seraglio garden

Bruremarsj Østerdalen (Wedding March)

Traditional (Norway)

No text