Let Him Slither Like a Snake

 (When Music Becomes a Curse)

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In Romanian folk tradition, there’s a song so heartbreakingly beautiful, you might weep before you understand what it’s doing to you. It’s called “Cine iubește și lasă”—“The one who loves and leaves”—and it flows like a lament but strikes like a curse. Not a metaphorical one. A real one. The kind that calls on God to mark the betrayer’s body and soul:

Cine iubește și lasă,
Dumnezeu să-i dea pedeapsă,
târâişul şarpelui
şi pasul gândacului

The one who loves and leaves,
may God punish them,
give them the snake's slither
and the bug's walk

That’s not a figure of speech. That’s an invocation.
This isn’t a song. It’s a blade.
And it’s not alone.

Across centuries and continents, human beings have used music not to soothe—but to scar. To call out betrayal, to remember injustice, and to curse the one who did them wrong in ways no priest, no court, and no sword ever could. This is music as moral vengeance, and when done right, it leaves the target slithering like a snake.

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I. The Song That Spits

Let’s be clear: folk music isn’t innocent. It remembers. It judges. In villages where no court would ever care if a man disappeared after abandoning a woman, songs made sure his name would be remembered.

In “Cine iubește și lasă,” the curse is wrapped in melody. The voice that sings it is soft. But the words are anything but.

Vâjâitul vântului,
pulberea pământului

The wind's howl,
the dust of the earth

This isn’t sadness. It’s a spell.

And this tradition isn’t just Romanian. Let’s drag the whole world into this fire.

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II. The Blues: Hellhounds and Broken Deals

In the American South, blues music was soaked in sorrow—and sometimes, vengeance. Take Robert Johnson’s “Hellhound on My Trail” (1937):

I got to keep movin’, I got to keep movin’,
blues fallin’ down like hail…

Johnson doesn’t curse someone else. He curses himself. But that’s the twist: when the system is rigged, the music curses inward. It becomes the voice of the damned.

Or take Skip James’ “Devil Got My Woman”:

I’d rather be the devil than to be that woman’s man.

These hearts aren’t just broken—they’re scorched. And they want someone to burn for it.

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III. Fado and Flamenco: The Velvet Guillotine

In Portugal, Fado is the sound of fates resigned—but not forgotten. In Amália Rodrigues’ “Estranha Forma de Vida”, the singer doesn’t shout; she bleeds:

Foi por vontade de Deus / Que eu vivo nesta ansiedade…

It was by God's will / That I live in this anxiety…

If that sounds meek, listen closer. The song isn’t a prayer—it’s a lawsuit against God. The pain isn’t whispered; it’s nailed to the cathedral door.

Now cross into Spain, where Flamenco wields emotion like a knife. In cante jondo (deep song), you’ll hear lines like this one from La Niña de los Peines:

Mal haya quien me dejó,
¡maldito sea su querer!

Cursed be the one who left me,
damned be their love!

The voice cracks, the guitar wails, and the curse flies straight through your ribs.

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IV. Murder Ballads and Irish Warnings

In Ireland, curses don’t always come in a blaze. Sometimes they’re colder. Slower. In “The Butcher Boy”, a pregnant girl is abandoned by her lover and hangs herself. The song ends with this funeral verse:

Go dig my grave both wide and deep,
put a marble stone at my head and feet.

No screaming. Just silence—and a grave that haunts the man forever.

Or consider “The Twa Sisters” (a Scottish border ballad):

A sister murders her sibling out of jealousy, and the dead girl’s bones are turned into a harp that sings the truth:

And the only tune that the harp would play
was ‘Woe to my sister, who drowned me today.’

A curse sung from beyond the grave. That’s folklore justice.

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V. Curses Through the Veil: Gnawa, Mawwal, and the Ancient Threnos

In North Africa, the Gnawa tradition combines music and spirit-possession rituals. Some chants aim to heal, but others summon ancestral pain. Betrayers beware—those rhythms aren't always there to forgive.

In the Middle East, mawwal improvisations often contain veiled imprecations. A line like:

You broke the glass of my trust; may your tongue know no rest.

isn’t just lyricism—it’s slow poison, dripped through voice.

Go back even further. Ancient Greeks sang the threnos, funeral dirges that could mourn or condemn. The Furies—the goddesses of vengeance—were invoked with rhythm and rhyme. Music wasn’t an offering. It was a summons.

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VI. Why We Curse in Song

Because we remember better when it rhymes.

Because we’re cowards with swords and brave with words.

Because when someone breaks your life, sometimes all you have left is the power to sing about it so well they can’t sleep at night.

In societies where justice was a luxury, music was the courtroom.

In places where women were voiceless, songs became verdicts.

When blood wasn’t spilled, lyrics did the wounding.

And the deepest irony?

The most lethal curses are the beautiful ones.

No one sings “Cine iubește și lasă” in rage.

They sing it slowly. Softly. With velvet in their throat and fire behind their eyes.

Because in folk culture, music isn’t therapy. It’s vengeance.

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VII. And Still, He Slithers

“Cine iubește și lasă” isn’t just a folk song. It’s a surviving spell.

It has outlived the man it was written for, and it’ll outlive the next one, too.

It wraps pain in honey, folds it into the air, and lets everyone who hears it carry the curse forward.

Let him slither like a snake.

Let her voice echo through his bones.

Let the song remember what the singer has already forgiven.

Because sometimes, the blade that cuts the deepest

is the one you hum.