Give Water To Birds

Credits from Bandcamp

Recorded live at Hello Daydreamer by Myles Mumford on the lands of the Wurundjeri Woi Wurrung people.
Additional sounds recorded at Black Hill by Myles Mumford.
Poetry by Siavash Kasraie, Ahmad Reza Ahmadi, Shams Langeroudi, Freydoon Moshiri, Hushang Ebtehaj.
Cover image: Behnam Pour surrounded by street dogs, standing on the shore of the Caspian Sea دریای خزر.
ZÖJ with Brett Langsford image by Chris Riordan.
Translations by Gelareh Pour.

Layout by Gelareh Pour with Brian O’Dwyer.
Produced by Brian O’Dwyer with Gelareh Pour and Myles Mumford.

Thank you:
Hello Daydreamer, Brett Langsford and Ainslie Wills, Myles and Tegan Mumford, Eshagh Abdollahpour, Behnam Pour, Siavash Kasraie, Ahmad Reza Ahmadi, Shams Langeroudi, Freydoon Moshiri, Hushang Ebtehaj, Fatemeh Araghian, Alexis Courtin and Parenthèses Records, Rok Košir, Gilava Pour, Michael O’Dwyer, Marshall Mcguire and the Melbourne Recital Centre, Chris Riordan, Chris Pearson, Olli Zilk, Joe Malignaggi and Alexandra Voulgaris, Claire Jager, Tony Robertson and Lysette Ashford, Chris Riordan, Andrew Ford, Annette Tripodi, Emily Tulloch, Mat Duniam and Roger Terrill and Red Rock drums, Michael and Karen Green, Roger Holdsworth, Kaylie Melville, Adam Biggs, Jimmy, Sia, Hamzeh and all the beautiful birds at Mount Monument.

© + Ⓟ Parenthèses Records 2025

The following are lyrics that go in the lyrics field for their respective tracks:

Caspian:
Poetry by Siavash Kasraie

O sea,
Where is your wave so that in the curls of its crest,
I may seek the scent of my homeland?
Where is your wave so that with a true heart,
I may send a message to the residents
Of the shore on the other side?
Your eyes are cloudy,
Your face is cloudy,
The depths of your thoughts are cloudy.
Here lingers a stranger, a scattered mind,
Bound to you, hoping for no one to come.
O sea, do not turn away,
Speak with me,
You are my mother; embrace me with love.
The sun lies buried in your depths.
O sea,
You are my mother; embrace me with love.

Forever Tehrani:
Poetry by Ahmad Reza Ahmadi

Tomorrow, I will walk to an alley,
The one I stood in when I was fourteen.
I will follow the scent of mud-brick mortar
To a house standing on the edge of the desert.

Tasian:
Poetry by Hushang Ebtehaj

The house was suffocated by a gloomy sunset,
Like today, my heart feels stifled.
My father said, "The lamp,"
And the night filled with night.
I said to myself,
"One more day has passed."
My mother sighed,
"They’ll come back soon."
A cloud gently slid across my eyes,
And then I fell asleep.
Who could have thought there was so much pain
Lurking in the heart of that little child?
Yes, that day, as someone left,
I believed they would return.
I did not know the meaning of ‘never’.
Why did you never come back?
Oh,
Cursed word of doom,
My heart still hasn’t grown into you.
After all these years,
I am still waiting,
For my loved ones to come back, oh...

Hours of Ripened Grapes:
Poetry by Shams Langeroudi

I hurry toward you,
With seas, sails, and cottages swaying in a lemon-coloured sky.
I hurry toward you,
With the hours of ripened grapes
And the diamonds beside you,
Where the soul sows seeds of joy
And looks into you,
That you may rain upon this wandering field.

On Our Little Balcony:
Poetry by Freydoon Moshiri
Narrated by Eshagh Abdollahpour

Except for the laughter of my precious daughter, Bahār,
I have not seen a garden or spring for years.
From the dry shrubs lining the rooftop edges,
I have seen nothing but the bitter laughter of sorrow.
On the gloomy tablet of this aged sky,
I have seen no pattern but dark clouds.
In this house, drowned in dust and smoke, alas,
I have forgotten the colours of tulips and meadows.
And of all the poems written about spring by poets,
I have only remembered and mourned them with longing.
In our dismal city,
Here, where narrow minds and tall walls
Cast shadows upon us and our destiny,
For years I have yearned to hear a melody of joy,
Dreamed of seeing a green branch,
A spring, a tree,
A blooming garden, a clear sky.
Through smoke, dust, bricks, and iron, I have run.
Not just I, but my sweet daughter, too,
Has only heard tales of flowers and deserts from me.
She has never seen the cheerful flight of swallows.
Though like a swallow, she has flown herself,
From this room to the balcony she has leapt.
I, with my imagination,
With colourful dreams,
With the laughter of my precious daughter, Bahār,
And with the poems about spring that poets have written,
Rejoice in the barren garden of my mind,
Content and elated.