Year of the farmer

On 9 March 2018, TeaterStudio Lederman in Stockholm was visited by the libertarian musician Lars Anders Johansson (@budoarstrain). Here he performs Year of the farmeraccompanied by the eminent Thomas von Wachenfeldt (@vonwachenfeldt) on violin and also Pelle Westlin and Jacob Tellin.

On the same theme, I can recommend Vilhelm Moberg's little book The Year of the Farmer from 1966, a 64-page chronicle of our four seasons.

Here are the full lyrics to the song, written by Lars Anders Johnsson:

When only the winter darkness dissipates a few hours each day
and the north wind blows through marrow and through bone
when the coming of spring can only be glimpsed trembling and faint
in the distance beyond the snow that covers grass and log and stone
when our country has gone to rest, as still as a grave
the bear sleeps heavily in his den and the farmer in his yard
for his field is a desert before the frost is gone
for the farmer as for the bear, the winter cold is hard

but on the ice you gather to markets and things
over frozen lakes oaks laughter and oaks song
and in the joy of meeting all the people from far and wide
the winter world will not be so twisted

for soon all the ice will melt and the sun will melt away all the snow
Soon every bud that has long bitten will burst
while the shapes of winter wither, melt away and die
wake up everything that slept heavily during the winter time
and the birds return in flocks from the south
and the forest is filled with the cheerful song of birds
under the trees the game flows to enemies and brothers
to eat or be eaten in the circle of life

after the tar has gone out of the earth, the farmer ploughs up his land
and he sows it with his will and his courage
a stone field for him as beautiful as a park
in which the emperor himself in ancient times stood

The buds become flowers and the flowers become fruit
You have to pray to the powers of the weather that the summer will be good
With the right amount of no sunshine and just the right amount of moisture
So that the shelves are filled in the farmer's storehouse
for as autumn approaches, the fruits of their labours
Sprout and ripen invite to harvest
And our grower is rewarded for all his toil and diligence
Like his fathers before him of the same proud birth

For there closes the circle that our proud farmer walks
Where he strives from his birth to his grave
A circle that is always the same every year
For the man who has always been the hub of the world

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