This song is not the cry of someone searching for the Goddess.
It is the breath of one already taken.
“S.O.S. d’un terrien en détresse” is not about longing for flight or dreaming of another world. It is the voice of a sādhaka who has been caught in the coils of Devi, unable to escape, unable to return. Every question — why do I live, why do I die? — is no longer philosophy. It is the sound of identity dissolving, of a self being quietly dismantled from within.
In Kaula-Shakta understanding, this state is not despair alone — it is grace. For when the Mother truly claims you, She does not come as comfort. She comes as the serpent who squeezes until no resistance remains. She comes as the fire that consumes the old skin, leaving only what is real.
This song, especially in Dimash’s rendering, becomes a prayer of the snake — tender, raw, inevitable. It is not sung to Her, but through Her, as though She breathes through the mouth of the one She holds. The beauty lies not in resolution but in surrender: the fragile honesty of a soul that no longer has the strength to pretend.
What we hear is not tragedy.
It is metamorphosis.
The breaking open that is the first mercy of the Goddess.
Stanza 1
French:
Pourquoi je vis, pourquoi je meurs
Pourquoi je ris, pourquoi je pleure
Voici le S.O.S. d'un terrien en détresseEnglish:
Why do I live, why do I die
Why do I laugh, why do I cry
Here is the S.O.S. of a human in distress
This is the cry that escapes when all certainties collapse. Not the arrogance of a philosopher trying to solve existence, but the small, trembling honesty of one who has been broken open. The sādhaka no longer says: I know who I am, I know why I am here. Instead, every “why” is a fading ember of identity, burning out in the vast mouth of the Goddess.
In Kaula-Shakta understanding, this is the first sign that Devi has already claimed you. A true sādhaka does not begin with clear answers — but with the raw, choking questions that feel almost shameful to admit. Yet these cries are sacred. They are the sound of resistance melting. The ego cannot endure in Her presence; its last act is to stammer “why?” before silence takes it.
Thus the S.O.S. is not a call outward, but an echo within. It is the murmur of a soul caught in Her coils, signaling not for rescue but simply revealing the truth of its own undoing.
Stanza 2
French:
J’ai jamais eu les pieds sur terre
J’aimerais mieux être un oiseau
J’suis mal dans ma peauEnglish:
I have never had my feet on the ground
I would rather be a bird
I feel ill at ease in my own skin
The sādhaka admits: this world was never home. From childhood, there was always a mismatch, a dissonance — feet never rooted, belonging always absent. What others call “life” felt borrowed, fragile, slightly unreal.
“I would rather be a bird” is not childish fantasy — it is the voice of the ūrdhva-śakti, the ascending current within. The body feels like a cage, a shell too tight. In Kaula language, this is the moment of skin-shedding. The serpent grows, and the old covering begins to suffocate. To feel “mal dans ma peau” is painful, yes — but also holy. It means the cocoon has reached its limit; something is pressing from within.
Here the sādhaka’s prayer is not to own wings, but to be released from the skin that no longer fits. Devi presses down; the old self suffocates. And in that suffocation, the first truth is whispered: you were never made for the ground.
Stanza 3
French:
J’voudrais voir le monde à l’envers
Si jamais c’était plus beau
Plus beau vu d’en haut, vu d’en hautEnglish:
I would like to see the world upside down
If perhaps it were more beautiful
More beautiful seen from above, seen from above
This longing is not escapism — it is inversion, viloma-darśana. In the Kaula path, the Goddess is the one who overturns the ordinary order of things. She makes the low sacred and the high dissolve; She turns poison into nectar, death into gateway, anguish into devotion.
The sādhaka here does not ask for a new world — only for another perspective, for the chance to see through Her eyes. To see the same world “upside down,” from the height of the awakened current, is already liberation. It is not the world that must change, but the seer.
“Plus beau vu d’en haut” is the prayer of ascent — not the flight of escape, but the rising into Her view, where beauty is not created but revealed. What was once confusion becomes pattern; what was once pain becomes necessity; what was once ugly becomes luminous.
This is the shift when Śakti begins to peel back the veil: the sādhaka sees the very same reality — but turned inside out, and suddenly radiant.
Stanza 4
French:
J’ai toujours confondu la vie
Avec les bandes dessinées
J’ai comme des envies de métamorphose
Je sens quelque chose
Qui m’attire
Qui m’attire
Qui m’attire vers le hautEnglish:
I have always confused life
With comic books
I have cravings for metamorphosis
I feel something
That pulls me
That pulls me
That pulls me upward
The confession continues: life, as it has been lived, felt flat, cartoonish — like a series of panels without depth. What others call “reality” seemed two-dimensional, scripted, artificial. This is māyā seen from within — glossy, colorful, yet hollow.
From this hollowness arises not despair, but hunger for metamorphosis. The caterpillar cannot believe in the paper world anymore; something in its blood calls it to wings. In Kaula-Shakta, this “pulling upward” is not willpower, but grace. It is Śakti Herself magnetizing the soul, drawing it through stages of dissolution.
Notice the repetition: qui m’attire, qui m’attire, qui m’attire vers le haut. The pull is insistent, irresistible. The sādhaka does not rise by effort — he is lifted, like a body seized by the serpent. It is the Mother tightening Her grip, raising Her prey toward the fire of transformation.
Metamorphosis in Kaula is always violent and tender at once: the skin tears, the old form cracks, but beneath it something luminous awakens. Here, the voice is both weary and hopeful, broken yet drawn upward against its own gravity.
Stanza 5
French:
Au grand loto de l’univers
J’ai pas tiré l’bon numéro
J’suis mal dans ma peau
OhhhEnglish:
In the great lottery of the universe
I didn’t draw the winning number
I feel ill at ease in my skin
Ohhh
Here the sādhaka sinks into the sense of cosmic injustice — the familiar cry: Why me? Why this life, this body, this fate? In ordinary terms it is despair, but in Kaula vision it is more: it is the ego’s last protest against the precision of karma.
The “bad number” is not random chance — it is Devi’s arrangement. The Kaula knows: She gives the exact body, the exact wounds, the exact circumstances needed for the breaking-open. To feel “mal dans ma peau” is to stand on the threshold — not rejecting the gift, but admitting its unbearable weight.
This lament is itself a purification. By naming the wound, the sādhaka lets the poison rise to the surface. And in Kaula, poison is never wasted. Viṣa becomes nectar when held in Her mouth. What feels like the losing ticket is in truth the seed of liberation.
Stanza 6
French:
Si jamais c’était plus beau
Plus beau vu d’en haut…
D’en haut…English:
If perhaps it were more beautiful
More beautiful seen from above…
From above…
The gaze returns upward. After despair comes a fragile lifting of the head: maybe it is not as it seems from here.
This is the rhythm of sādhana: plunge into darkness, then a glimpse of light; collapse into skin, then a pull beyond it. The beauty “from above” is not elsewhere — it is the same world seen through the Goddess’s eye.
The repetition — d’en haut… d’en haut… — carries the trembling hope of the captive: though crushed, still sensing a vastness opening above. In Kaula, this is Śakti’s play: She alternates suffocation with flashes of sky, teaching that both are Her gifts.
To endure this oscillation without turning away is itself initiation.
Stanza 7
French:
Pourquoi je vis, pourquoi je meurs ?
Pourquoi je crie, pourquoi je pleure ?
Je crois capter des ondes
Venues d’un autre mondeEnglish:
Why do I live, why do I die?
Why do I scream, why do I cry?
I think I am receiving signals
Coming from another world
Here the voice bends inward again: the “why” repeats, but it is softer, more transparent. The scream itself becomes less like protest and more like a vibration. The sādhaka senses that the pain is not only personal — it is a tuning fork.
Je crois capter des ondes… — this is the recognition that despair itself is an antenna. In Kaula-Shakta language, this is śakti-pāta: the descent of force. Brokenness sharpens perception; the heart cracked open begins to pick up Her frequency. What felt like madness becomes reception.
The sādhaka discovers: my distress is not only mine — it is Her way of speaking through me, Her way of pulling me beyond the human into the cosmic.
Stanza 8
French:
J’ai jamais eu les pieds sur terre
Si jamais c’était plus beau
Plus beau vu d’en haut
Si jamais c’était plus beau…English:
I’ve never had my feet on the ground
If perhaps it were more beautiful
More beautiful seen from above
If perhaps it were more beautiful…
The refrain returns — but now it carries less anguish, more surrender. What began as protest (“I’ve never had my feet on the ground”) is now simply confession, tender and plain.
The repetition of “si jamais c’était plus beau” feels like a mantra. The sādhaka has stopped arguing with fate; he is rocked gently in the possibility of beauty — not demanding proof, just whispering the thought. In Kaula, this is the quiet after the storm: when resistance is burned out, even the same words soften into prayer.
Stanza 9 (Closing)
French:
Dodo, l’enfant do…English:
Sleep, child, sleep…
The hymn ends not with resolution, but with a lullaby. The sādhaka who began with screams is now laid down like a child in the lap of the Mother. This is not escapism — it is the first taste of trust.
In Kaula-Shakta vision, the highest tenderness comes only after the deepest breaking. The same coils that suffocated now rock the child to sleep. The same Mother who devoured now hums through the hollow chest.
The prayer of the snake ends as all prayers must: not in answers, not in triumph, but in surrender so complete it becomes rest.
Closing Note
This song is not philosophy. It is initiation. The sādhaka cries, protests, surrenders, is lifted, broken, and finally rocked into stillness. Each verse is a coil of the serpent tightening and loosening, until the prey no longer struggles.
And in that stillness — in the lullaby at the end — we hear the truth: the S.O.S. was never sent into the void. It was always Her answering Herself.
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