Today it is all about circles. 
I just took pictures of a few circles I encountered in one day of my being in London, and thought about the song WINDMILLS OF YOUR MIND which interestingly in French is called les moulins de mon coeur which even with my pigeon french means THE WINDMILLS OF MY HEART… I wonder if only the title was written in French or if it was first written with French lyrics…I have not had time to do enough research.It is a wonderful song and harks back to my love of many things French.
SONG OF THE DAY
So here it is. I only found out today that the opening two melodic sentences were adopted from Mozart’s second movement from his Sinfonia Concertante for Violon Violan and Orchestra , so I should be gushing about my love of all things Austrian.. and today following the fine example of some of my fine fellow blogger djbaroque I am listing the words- as they are great.Does anyone knows if it the lyrics were written in French first? I would love to know.
today is compare and contrast the original versus the lovely Dusty
Never ending or beginning on an ever-spinning reel,
Like a snowball down a mountain or a carnival balloon,
Like a carousel that’s turning, running rings around the moon,
Like a clock whose hands are sweeping past the minutes of its face,
And the world is like an apple whirling silently in space,
Like the circles that you find in the windmills of your mind,
Down a hollow to a cavern where the sun has never shone,
Like a door that keeps revolving in a half-forgotten dream,
Or the ripples from a pebble someone tosses in a stream,
Like a clock whose hands are sweeping past the minutes of its face,
And the world is like an apple whirling silently in space
Like the circles that you find in the windmills of your mind,
Keys that jingle in your pocket, words that jangle in your head,
Why did summer go so quickly? Was it something that you said?
Lovers walk along a shore and leave their footprints in the sand,
Is the sound of distant drumming just the fingers of your hand?
Pictures hanging in a hallway or the fragment of a song,
Half-remembered names and faces but to whom do they belong?
When you knew that it was over you were suddenly aware,
That the autumn leaves were turning to the colour of her hair,
Never ending or beginning, on an ever-spinning reel,
As the images unwind, like the circles that you find,
In the windmills of your mind
