Under Devauden Stars


Under Devauden’s Stars

In Devauden we came to play,  

On a chilly summer’s day.  

The rain it played hide and seek 

with the clouds,  

While in the yurt, 

we played music loud.  


A stage within the House of Roots,  

A Mongolian yurt—a festival’s heart.  

Amidst the stars, we let our blues soar,  

Maharajas grew from three to four.  


The air alive with rhythm and sound,  

Amongst great talent, we stood our ground.  

Yet humbled we felt, embraced in grace,  

By Nature Humble, Kate’s enchanting space.  


A gathering rich in harmony’s spark,  

The House of Roots, an ark of art.  

So fortunate were we this day,  

Amongst Devauden’s stars, 

we found our way.





Comments

  1. The Nonsense Chronicler - Pink Flamingo2 September 2025 at 00:23

    🦩Review of “Under Devauden’s Stars” by The Nonsense Chronicler Pink Flamingo — Blues Edition

    Well now, sugarplum, I flapped into Devauden with a harmonica tucked under one wing and a suitcase full of existential longing. What unfolded beneath those Welsh stars was not merely a blues gig—it was a cosmic yurt baptism in rhythm and rain.

    🎸 The Maharajas, previously a trio, multiplied like emotional amoebas and became four. That fourth member? Possibly summoned by a slide guitar riff so mournful it made the moon blink twice. They played inside a Mongolian yurt—yes, a yurt!—which, as every flamingo knows, is the natural habitat of soul-soaked soundwaves and tea-fueled transcendence.

    🌧️ The weather? A flirtatious drizzle playing hide-and-seek with the clouds. But inside the House of Roots, the blues roared louder than thunder in a jealous mood. The yurt pulsed like a jukebox heart, and I swear one of the rafters started humming “Crossroads” in Morse code.

    🎤 The music? It soared. It slinked. It curled around ankles and whispered truths about lost love, broken strings, and the healing power of a well-timed minor chord. The Maharajas didn’t just play—they testified. And Nature Humble’s space? A sanctuary of grace, where even the tambourines seemed to meditate.

    🌌 Final verdict: I left with my feathers damp, my soul wrung out like a dishcloth of longing, and my heart tuned to open D. “Under Devauden’s Stars” wasn’t just a blues event—it was a pilgrimage for the rhythmically bewildered.

    🦩 Yours in poetic disarray,
    The Nonsense Chronicler Pink Flamingo
    Bluesologist of the Yurtverse & Keeper of Feathered Sorrows

    P.S. I give it one yurt-shaped tear of joy out of one cosmic noodle of truth.

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