Stravinsky - the Rite of Spring

Taken inside the bowels of bassoons, tropical heat from swelling bows. Sweat labors the brow, full with carnal dissonance. The throat is lunged by a beast veiled in foliage. Spewed in a mass of broken pickaxes! Kicked again into the thunder of claws! In flames of foundries lost. Becoming Roman Candles opening across the night. But drinking cool women in the thaw of glaciers, smoothing their oblong stones, clear cleansed lemon lime oboes. Naked bodies bloom. Raced around a corner at top speed, the pounding of industry, a worker in goggles forging metal. Without notice, still mesmerized by fire, in the belly of percussion, paused by a dawning pond of sullen fog, a brief dream shrouded in ungrasped riddles. Sudden conductor realized in the grass of tones, using his baton as a machete. On a distant hill A shepherd beckons. Animated, beclouded, a restless crow in search, a cinematic fade-out.