Monday, December 31, 2012

To the CRPS Community -- Ramping Up the Petitions

The "We the People" Petition Movement created by Djinni at the White House -- something akin to second string elves at the North Pole -- struck me, a former teacher, as brilliant Busy Work.

And then, during a few hours of intense pain following the obligatory "it's-almost-2013" house-cleaning onslaught, I found myself wanting to write an end-of-the-year letter to my buddy, my friend, my president, Barack Obama.  I landed on the "We the People" Petition Movement page, and having essentially no attention span, stared at it for a bit.  "How does it work?" wondered some part of my brain.

All right, yes, I was itching to start a petition.  It did not matter about what, I just wanted to be a petition author.  Go out in a blaze of importance.  "Profderien, her?" -- people will say -- "Didn't she write that comprehensive, reader-friendly, and yet incredibly stuck-up final petition of 2012?  The world is going to miss people like her."

Yes, but...

Damn the "[y]es, but"s of this world!

There is a very neat little box-like box on the webpage that says:
Creating a duplicate or similar petition will make it harder for you to get an official response. Instead, sign and help promote the one that has already been created.

They, the White House Djinni, call it "a helpful hint," the bastards.

But what do you do when you finally focus enough to figure out what you'd be willing to fight for, and do a search of extant petitions, only to find one, and only one, and to find it... insufficient?

The CRPS community (and again, one day I'll do the long-promised post on illness "communities," but for now please allow BLECK to suffice as commentary)...

Ahem.  Do-over!

The CRPS community is not all that large, not at all cohesive, and like any group, not nearly as homogeneous as petition-writers, petition-signers, pollsters, and politicians love to assume.

This, in short, is the only active CRPS petition in the queue at the "We the People" website -- that I was able to find.  There may be others, perhaps grouped with other "pain" issues or [financially] orphaned diseases:

WE PETITION THE OBAMA ADMINISTRATION TO:Teach Reflex Sympathetic Dystrophy in all Medical Schooling
Reflex Sympathetic Dystrophy is a nerve disease that effects millions of people in the USA . This disease is legally diagnosed & accepted by the Social Security Administration .We need a bill passed to teach RSD/CPRS in our Medical Schools & Facilities . Common mistakes to prevent ,Early detection , less suffering , Pain & financial loss , for the individual & the financial status of the Goverment. Please make this awareness as the patient amount sores in numbers . Thank You, Author Deeann Elizabeth Pavlick
Created: Dec 20, 2012

It lacks roughly 23,900 signatures to meet the threshold date of January 19, 2013 and hopefully won't make it.  I signed it.  I felt browbeat by the little admonition against creating dueling petitions.
I felt that I owed it to Deeann Elizabeth Pavlick, the author.

But my fingers are itching to begin drafting a new petition dealing with CRPS.  It would not contain "RSD" within its body except to attempt a one or two line explanation of why that term needs to be done away with, especially if we are talking about medical school education.  And may God let that shift in scientific thought trickle up, down, and all around, and mostly into the brains of CRPS patients.

CRPS patients need to stop making it about "oh, how we suffer." We need to stop fighting the puppet shadows on the wall because Jose Ochoa and his minions have to all die off, eventually, and fighting them simply gives their backward self-serving pseudo-science another hearing.  The legitimacy of CRPS as an illness, and perhaps as one pain syndrome among many related to neuroinflammatory processes, is no longer at issue.

Treatment algorithms based on up-to-date research, coming from what looks to me now like a three-pronged group of excellent medical advocates, need to be promoted -- and their promotion needs to REPLACE all of the "awareness" nonsense that we, The Freaking Community, have been caught up in.

Do you know what brings awareness?  Not celebrities fighting the same disorder.  Not one more doctor able to stutter out a correct depaction of CRPS or, God forbid, RSD.  Not ribbons, not slogans, not obliteration of the pain scale (nor endless citation of the McGill Pain Scale) -- nor any other sort of pain catastrophizing that the Community can promulgate.

Money.  A pipeline of profitability.  Big Pharma.  The possibility of a pill.  The possibility of an actual deep brain surgery, or the discovery of a CNS Reset Button just derrière the Belly Button that requires eight pre-op visits for Botox injections that must be administered by a plastic Cosmetic Surgeon certificated in Belly Button Resetting and Reconstruction Within the Context of Central Nervous System Dysfunction (BBRARWTCOCNSD).

That's what makes stuff worthy of the medical school syllabus.  Money.

I'm racking my brain to make this work across the disciplines.  I may have to consult my Brother-Units:  the one, Grader Boob, who breaks into a rash at the very word syllabus, and who knows that whoever wrote the primary text for the course in question controls the syllabus;  the other, TW, who knows more about the Truth of Stuff and what ought to be on the syllabus, but who maybe doesn't have the callus or scarring peculiar to academia that would lend his syllabus creds.  (I don't really know and should ask.)

Heh-heh.  I just accomplished one of my resolutions for 2013 -- to use "creds" and to use it so coolly and so hip-a-lushishly that it would just flow off my fingertips onto the keyboard and from there to my monitor, to ultimately land, lightly and naturally, on yours.  Just don't tell me that the Urban Dictionary is no longer hep, happening, fashionable, stylish, trendy!

1.creds32 up8 down
Credentials earned in life by experience. Credit given.
He talked about being in prison like it gave him creds.
by Willy Gee Jul 22, 2005 
2.creds2 up3 down
Money you pay to a prostitute for their sex. Advice: 10-20 up front, the rest after the fact.
Person 1: Dude, I just paid 100 cred for that girl!

Person 2: Waaaaaayyyyy an overpay man, she only is worth 55 creds at max.
street cred cred money dough creed
by Hamcracker Jun 2, 2011 
3.creds3 up8 down
Phone credit, i.e. money to make calls with.
Bob: "I'll get some creds, talk later"
Kyle: "See ya, balla"
credit cash credz phonemoney dredit
by triedit Dec 27, 2009 

Yeah, so I guess this post, despite its constitutionally-inspired beginnings, has steadily gone downhill.

Am I promising a new CRPS White House Petition once this one has died, or even once this one has achieved much success?  Yes, I am.  

I will hold myself to it.  It's either the carrot or the stick that will get me to January 19, 2013.  Believe it or not, I promise to bring to the effort consultation with others wiser than myself on the involved topics, to put aside snark and the unnecessary, and, mostly, to think first of the real CRPS community.

Your job, should you choose to accept it, is to come up with a sequential carrot or stick to draw things out to at least, say, mid-February.  Your job, too, to unpack the idiom as you see fit... for I had no idea it was such a point of contention.  (Yes, when I was a worker bee, words -- idioms, cognates, parts of speech -- were a big ol' part of my job.)

courtesy of NPR

Luciano Pavarotti and James Brown - It's a Man's World

this is one of those times i'm pretty sure of being the last person on earth to have heard this! well, at least #5,711,271.

pretty freaking awesome, and all those other words.  cool.  wondrous.  far out.  rock me on the water, bay-bee.

("rock me on the water, bay-bee."?)


uploaded to YouTube by 0NeSsE0 on Sep 15, 2007

We all must do the best we can 
And then hang on to that gospel plow 
When my life is over, I'm going to stand before the father 
But the sisters of the sun are going to rock me on the water now 

Rock me on the water 

Sister will you soothe my fevered brow 
Rock me on the water, maybe I'll remember 
Maybe I'll remember how 
Rock me on the water 
The wind is with me now 
So rock me on the water 
I'll get down to the sea somehow

"rock me on the water, bay-bee."?
note to self:  where do our expressions of wonder, the ones no one else might understand, come from?  

"But where does by far the bulk, the whole ambulance load, 
of pain really come from? Where must it come from? 
Isn't the true poet or painter a seer? Isn't he, actually, 
the only seer we have on earth? Most apparently not the scientist, 
most emphatically not the psychiatrist."

Friday, December 28, 2012

brothers, boxes, and just enough ladles: merry christmas!

oh, this blog entry is gonna be all over the darned place.

you'll love it!

well, you'll love it if you love me, if you know me.  if you've just wandered in, looking for CRPS research abstracts, or elogies to pain... oh, damn, here we go.  "elogies." excuse the heck out of me, but i am going to substitute the french "éloges" because i certainly am not referencing some down-in-the-mouth funeral oration or the light fiction of an obituary.  and see?  see?  see how my own darned self has killed any natural momentum to the act of writing by an obsession with words?

only one dictionary of the three consulted listed a definition having to do with praise, and that dictionary underscored the "archaic" nature of that meaning.  none would have appreciated, were dictionaries capable of appreciation, mine own irony.

i just finished mouthing off to some important people in my life, and my mouth did it -- again and again.  that these people love me back is one of the great mysteries of the universe.

to TW, the subject line might have been a canary sufficient to the coal mine:  "i have so much to say..." but he is far, far from timorous, and probably read on to the opening of the elucidating message text, even as the little bird fell like a ten pound rock to the bottom of her newspapered cage:

...and yet i can't.  damn that samuel beckett.  [i can never remember whether he ends his last name with one T or two Ts, so i look it up, and every time, google suggests "bucket."]
so i will stick to the stuff that matters.

it turns out that "the stuff that matters," judging by the relative subject-weighting as distributed in this morning's anemic oxygen-debted febrile communiqués (for which spell-checker demands "communism"), is dehydrated vegetables.  more specifically, how to use them in a stew.

a stew that is rich and deep, melded by something part gravy-with-sheen, part viscous broth.  all of which will be ruined by chicken.  (i have emergent need of protein.)

a missing detail:  TW has been intimate with these vegetables, having sown, overseen, harvested, and dried them -- before gifting us manor squatters with their dessicated, concentrated goodness in the traditional Celebratory Box.  the beautiful history of TW's Boxes can be found in some of this mass of earlier posts or more quickly captured at the first's box arrival, HERE.

it's a weighty issue, and by that i mean that i am talking about dehydrated vegetables again:

for instance... can i treat the dried maters like sun-dried maters -- as in DON'T dilute their intensity?  or should i rehydrate everything before using, in which case, what happens to cooking times?  if i wanted to make a stew... can dehydrated veggies stand up to crock pot treatment or does that just wipe out their beautifully preserved virtues?

you may be thinking something along the lines of "i wonder if anyone ever actually gets to EAT at Marlinspike Hall, deep, deep in the Tête de Hergé?" yes, smartass, when i cook, there is plenty of eating in the aftermath, usually with great praise.  born of starvation, perhaps, but great praise, nonetheless.

in any event -- a favorite phrasing -- this is kind of a belated christmas post.  or winter solstice party, quieted by a blanket of snow.

because as i cast my eyes about -- and sadly, i can -- i note that, once again, it is TW's gift, his plain brown boxes, that is the gift truly given, and -- finally, today, or any minute now -- truly received.

fred just inquired, all polite and all, "ummm, is there an ETA on that stew or should i go ahead and eat a little something now to tide me over?"

i love it when he whispers sweet nothings in these ears.

lest you think kindly of me, or even consider a revision in that direction, here's another epistolary extrait to a dear friend earlier this morning, mid-first cup of coffee, and after the dehydrated veggie soliloquy (she's a good cook), an extract having to do with me and my various bitchy attitudes at Christmas time:

bitter and fed up?  me? 
i kept thinking:  my stepmom, stepsister, and brother grader boob are all gathered at the beach, celebrating xmas the way i grew up celebrating it... i actually have a family that might welcome me... and here i am, doing THIS. 
yes, i about fell out of bed -- i got an email from my mom and stepsis, and one from the boob, separately.  they were nice, friendly, sweet.  it's like all anyone was waiting for was for dad to croak.  it reminds me of when he did his in-country service in vietnam -- that was the happiest year of our lives.

how ugly and crass is that comment, hmmm?  and yet i made it, and repeat it, here.  the feeling in my stomach the day he returned home had nothing to do with the joys of reunion, but the reignited fears of failure, and grief over the death of freedoms and lightness, the death, the agonal breaths, of lightness.

so, john lennon, yes, this is christmas... and what have i done?  nothing yet.  but i am getting ready to do the most ancient form of the freestyle crawl, not out of primordial slime, or even out of algae-flowered moat water, but out of this blasted bed, into the power chair, with a stop to freshen up, so as not to scare the genetically indentured domestic manor staff* on duty this fine afternoon -- finally heading out, smiling and humming, to one of my favorite kitchens in this wing of the place. (it has the cleanest spit and many shiny, copper-bottomed cookware, with just enough ladles hanging about, for ladling, and usually with sven and/or cabana boy hanging about, as well, for company.)

ETA on the stew?  ha! your guess is as good as mine.

* i've yet to publish the definitive documentation, nor have i made a clear explanation of how the genetically indentured domestic manor staff came into being, for i kinda fear for my life should i do so, but i did dip a toe in those waters, briefly, at the beginning of the infamous Looking Up the Garderobe Chute post.

LATE-BREAKING ADDENDUM:  We are proud to announce the successful creation and consumption of a delicious stew.  It had depth.  It had just enough heat for a first go-round with the beautiful peppers and chiles and tomatoes.  Two huge bowls, normally dedicated to pasta dishes, were consumed per diner, and more might have been eaten were it not for the necessity to finish off the remains of Fred's various birthday cakes.  For my brethren and sistren stewmeisters, I used a potato-onion-tomato-cream base and built from there.  Booze was involved, also chicken (Did I mention an emergent need for protein?  Fast and easy protein?  Think "protein whore, protein skank," and whaddaya think?  CHICKEN!), plus roasted, shredded, beautifully crunchy brussels sprouts, diced sweet, sweet carrots.  As for spices, I was a bit boring -- sage, rosemary... but mostly thyme.  No matter what flavor profiles were considered, my mind kept returning to thyme.
Next attempt -- probably next Wednesday, on behalf of the Militant Lesbian Existentialist Feminists (and darling Fred) for their Wednesday night supper, when I will be aiming for more heat.  I am training those women to have asbestos palates.  It's a necessity in this new millennium, this new world.

Sunday, December 23, 2012

My Seasonal Under-Seasoned, Non-Reasoned Side Dish

This is not exactly a "vent," according to the technical requirements of venting, nor is it a pot pourri, as defined many times in this blog.  You can refresh yourself of the sad history of rotten earthenware on elle est belle la seine la seine elle est belle by fecklessly clicking HERE.

As for "venting," I'd go there in a heartbeat -- perhaps it's all I ever do -- but the thought of passing gas in the midst of a gastrointestinal bleed that cannot decide whether to resolve or seep, well, you understand.  And if you don't, well God bless your sweet little heart and maybe you should consider hanging out elsewhere, hmm?

It's an upper bleed, born of my need for anti-inflammatories.  See, Ma?  I told you it wasn't the crack and the meth and the fentanyl or the percocets that were gonna bring me down!  It's the Mobic and the ibuprofen, not to mention that fiendish aspirin protocol, those deceptively sweet little 81 mg aspirin doses meant for gurgling, chubby babies. Those fiendish back-alley drugs sold by tottering toddlers in droopy diaper drawers.

While I am blessing simpler minds and hearts, let me also praise the television and the brilliance of its offerings today.  You see, changing the channel has become difficult, much as standing, sitting, rolling over, and begging for bonita flakes have become terrible tasks.  Of course, I may be slightly confused, as my O2 sats are averaging a whopping 84.  I don't beg for bonito flakes.  Buddy begs for bonito flakes.  So where the television was when it was extinguished in the wee hours is where it stayed, mostly, today, under the terse glare of my double vision.

I watched three Dirty Harry movies in a row.  I'd never seen one before, not in its entirety (there's a clue for ya!).

Being a member of the simpler-minded set, the "dirty" in Dirty Harry began to bug me.  I started to itch.  Putting on my thinking cap, and vaguely wondering what-the-hell-is-that-musty-odor? -- I began to calculate, by counting backward through the momentous events that mark my days, when last I showered.

Hmmm, thought I, the Mathematician.  I knew The Calculus would serve me one day.  A liberal arts education is not yet bereft of all use!  And do you remember the guy who tutored me, O My Goodness.  Joe the Football Player and Math Whiz.  A cutie-pie.  A sweetie-poo.  His jeans weren't in style but they fit well, and we liked each other.  I hope Joe the Football Player and Math Whiz had a good life.  He surely deserved one.

Umm, yes, well, anyway, it turns out to have been the morning we went dashing through the rain to the Emergency Room... last Monday.  No... that's not right.  It was the Monday before THAT, 10 December.

Upon which realization, I made showering the sole goal of my day, to the relief of Fred, the Feline Triumvirate, and the Cistercian Brotherhood (apparently there has been a freakish shift in wind patterns, lo this past fortnight).

I must insist, as I have before, that I am not dirty.  I bathe daily, just not in the confines of a bathtub or shower.  Judicious use of a well-stocked half-bath, often two to three times in a day, keeps me as clean as your average person.  But we all know there's nothing like a shower, and certainly nothing feels so good as warm water streaming down an accursed bowed back.

This time, I refrained from scrubbing my feet, as that proved to be such a distraction to the medic-types in the hospital.  "Ew... your feet are bleeding." They even called in the Wound Care Team, which consisted of two timid young folk, quivering at the end of the bed, saying: "Ew... your feet are bleeding."

Moving right along, the shower is done, and the Dirty Harry marathon, as well.  I made a stab at changing the channel and hit upon, in sequence, The Sound of Music and The Return of the King, last of the trilogy.  Thank you, Peter Jackson.  Pippin just sang a plaintive tune to the finger-licking Denethor, Steward of Gondor.  That's one messed up Daddy -- though the influence of Mordor can do that to a man.

Which brings to mind a hilarious series of tweets, strung together by Todd Zwillich some time back.  I love 'em and know you will, too.  It was his moment of personal insanity over the often insanity producing topic of the bleeping "fiscal cliff."

Know who else went over the cliff to his demise? 

Know who ELSE went over the cliff to his demise?? 

Know who !ELSE! went over the cliff but survived? 

Know who ELSE went over the cliff but was stronger for it?!

[i *totaly* messed up that slick copy and paste maneuver, apologies!]

I can't go to movie theatres anymore -- that's right, I've been universally banned -- so The Hobbit being out is about killing me.  Have any of you Dear Readers seen it?  Was it wonderful?

I made it through this day, plan to do well tomorrow and actually sally-forth from behind Manor walls for some Christmas cheer and shopping.  I'm whipping up a ginger and honey carrot dish for Fred to offer the few Militant Existential Feminist Lesbians who will gather for a meal on Christmas day.  I'm planning to sneak some fresh cranberries, cooked just to the point of popping, to the dish, and think it will be beautiful as well as tasty.  

When I dropped the bomb about having been granted DNR status and offered Hospice palliative care during this last hearsepital stay, I thought there'd be an uproar.  Instead, there's been a studious refusal to discuss it.  I am in a quandry, as I don't feel much like talking about it, either, but really, really would be angry were it to be screwed up in application... so I am trying to figure out the right time to broach this oh-so-celebratory topic.  All I know is... bless one Dr. Montgomery, who helped me NOT to go to pieces but to articulate my wishes in a sane and sensible manner.

So I am thinking the best time to spring the discussion on the old Loved Ones is between the Yule Log and the popping of the 2013 cork.  And to cross every available digit in the hope that nothing happens between now and then.

As usual, not the post I set out to write.  Not a vent, not a pot pourri, not even something I'd choose to proof or edit.

It turned out like some kind of underseasoned, overthought side dish.

Needs salt.

Saturday, December 22, 2012

Ukulele Orchestras and Spinet Parts

Have I mentioned the return of live music to our lives?

Years ago, nothing much kept Fred from his collection of guitars, his fascination with high-end speaker design, and exciting evenings spent with Audio Societies of various girths, talents, and overdressed, bitchy audio widows.

Then, the music died.

I don't know exactly why, although I suppose the move to Tête de Hergé and Fred's immersion, literal and figurative, into the cold, murky waters of Marlinspike Hall's moat may have caused the arthritis in his thumbs to flare.

Plus, he has shared some choice adjectives to describe the acoustics of The Manor and the heritage of tin ears that must trouble the Haddock lineage.

Sometime last year, I had the many layers of priceless carpets of silk and wool removed from our private quarters, mostly due to runny eyes and sneezes that always seemed to occur at just the wrong moment, if you get my drift, and I think you do.  We're not sure, so don't spread it around, but we think we may have unearthed a companion piece to the famous Pazyryk Carpet -- Cyrus the Great was truly a carpet hound.  How the Haddocks got their entrepreneurial hands on the weave is something we can only wonder, and any anonymous tips to Bob Woodward certainly did not originate with us.

In lieu of museum quality floor coverings, I consulted with the Sole Home Depot West of the Lone Alp, and had quality fake wood flooring installed.

And the music was reborn, no longer muted, no longer sucked into the ancient fibers of long gone days.  No more breezy sneezes and hooty honking to undermine the beauty of quadrilles, pasodobles, and the odd fandango.

No... Fred brought out his guitar collection, then a ukulele appeared, and, most recently, a spinet piano.   The spinet was a surprise.  I am still surprised everytime I see it and most especially surprised when I run into it, which happens with disturbing frequency.  The dear, polite woman piano tuner who came Tuesday to work on the only impulse buy I've ever known Fred to make... Well, the pools of sorrow in her eyes could only have been a reflection of my own.  She gently told him things about the spinet that he did not hear.  She stayed for tea, and tried again, a warm chesnut cardigan finished with fine ruffles framing the heart shape of her freckled face, a vintage maxi-dress covering her tiny feet.

She sported quite a different expression after tea, as she hauled away the spinet's entire action, after removing all the keys, and reassuring Fred that the task was nigh unto impossible and receiving an enthusiastic nod, with a hearty thumbs up, in return.

The ukulele has been, on the other hand, a veritable hoot.  Though the Wednesday night group still flounders, in large part due to the Merlot which emboldens them, Fred has opened for me a whole new world of ukulele richness and divcrsity.  One of these Wednesday nights, he will wisely replace the Merlot with tequila, and the ukuleles will sing.

You may already know what the ukulele can do but I marvel at performances like these, by the Ukulele Orchestra of Great Britain.  Among the "Frequently Asked Questions" listed on their website is this one:

How did the members of the orchestra meet? 
Some say it was at Bobby's Club in Hastings, some that they were all moonlighting BBC radio announcers. The truth is that when two or three ukulele players are gathered together the gravitational force means that other ukulele players start to come into the orbit. Very soon you are awash with pluckers.

I can attest to the veracity of this observation.

Anyway, enjoy these performances and maybe you'll go running through the night, credit card in hand, to acquire your own ukulele, amplified or acoustic, soprano to baritone, koa or mahogany, vintage or new.

The Ukulele Orchestra of Great Britain - The Good, The Bad and The Ugly

The Ukulele Orchestra of Great Britain

Teenage Dirtbag - The Ukulele Orchestra of Great Britain - BBC Proms

winter solstice

winter solstice on mars, photo credit

Thursday, December 20, 2012

i miss the monks singing lullabies

Jackson Browne's "The Barricades of Heaven"

Uploaded to YouTube by Hanswuerstle88

Running down around the towns along the shore
When I was sixteen and on my own
No, I couldn't tell you what the hell those brakes were for
I was just trying to hear my song

Jimmy found his own sweet sound and won that free guitar
We'd all get in the van and play
Life became the Paradox, the Bear, the Rouge et Noir
And the stretch of road running to L.A.

Pages turning
Pages we were years from learning
Straight into the night our hearts were flung
Better bring your own redemption when you come
To the barricades of Heaven where I'm from

All the world was shining from those hills
The stars above and the lights below
Among those there to test their fortunes and their wills
I lost track of the score long ago

Pages turning
Pages we were years from learning
Straight into the night our hearts were flung
Better bring your own redemption when you come
To the barricades of Heaven where I'm from

Childhood comes for me at night
Voices of my friends
Your face bathing me in light
Hope that never ends

Pages turning
Pages torn and pages burning
Faded pages, open in the sun
Better bring your own redemption when you come
To the barricades of Heaven where I'm from.
Better bring your own redemption when you come
To the barricades of Heaven where I'm from.


Da Pacem by John Muehleisen performed by Vox Reflexa

Uploaded on Apr 12, 2011 by Benjamin Geier
The following is Da Pacem written by John Muehleisen (b. 1955). This performance was part of Vox Reflexa's "Lenten" program performed for the Saint Louis Abbey Church in the Sping of 2011. The vocal ensemble Vox Reflexa meaning "Echo", strives to present at the highest level, contemporary polyphony rooted in western medieval tradition. The ensemble has been heralded as "[a] balanced group of beautiful voices that brought the audience to its feet several times. The concert was a rousing success for all concerned. (Journal and Courier, 2010)" The members of Vox Reflexa are young professionals and alumni of the Jacobs School of Music at Indiana University who hold advanced degrees from the finest institutions from the USA, Latin America, Europe, and Asia. The ensemble was founded in 2009 by Benjamin L. Geier and is based in Bloomington, Indiana, USA.
Shannon Love, soprano

Da Pacem

Da pacem, Domine, in diebus nostris
Quia non est alius
Qui pugnet pro nobis
Nisi tu Deus noster.

Da Pacem

Give peace, o Lord, in our time
Because there is no one else
Who will fight for us
If not You, our God.

Dona Nobis Pacem
Uploaded to YouTube by backwatermusic·
Finley and Pagdon

Traditional song of peace, used for centuries in the Catholic Church in Latin... 
translation: Give Us Peace. This is a canon commonly sung by vocal choirs.