Η καλύτερη τραγουδίστρια που πέρασε. Μπράβο για την δουλειά σας.

Ταπεινός άνθρωπος, καθαρή ψυχή Δεν έχω να πω κάτι άλλο! Δεν υπάρχη ούτε ένας τέτοιος άνθρωπος σήμερα..

Ένας ζωντανός θρύλος. Δωρική. Τέλεια. Δεν ξέρω εάν κάποτε θα βρεθεί φωνή. Να συνεχίσει αυτό που άφησε..

Σας ευχαριστώ πάρα πολυ η Παναγία να σας προσέχει παντοτε

Η Βασίλισσα που ποτέ καί κανείς δέν θά μπορέση ποτέ , μά ποτέ νά τήν ρίξη...Θά είναι Αιώνια ...Μία καί μοναδική Σωτηρία Μπέλλου καί δέν θά ξαναγεννηθή ποτέ άλλη...Τό ουδείς αναντικατάστατος δέν ισχύει γιά τήν Θεά ...τήν δική μας καί λατρεμμένη ΣΩΤΗΡΙΑ ΜΠΕΛΛΟΥ.

ΜΠΕΛΛΟΥ ΣΩΤΗΡΙΑ ΦΩΝΗ ΣΤΟ ΡΕΜΠΕΤΙΚΟ ΠΟΥ ΔΕΝ ΘΑ ΞΑΝΑΒΓΕΙ

Εύγε φιλαράκι για το ανέβασμα!!!!!

Σεμνός Ανθρωπος Ξεχωριστή Φωνή.

ho conosciuto sotiria:era seduta sulla seggiola.HO PARLATO CON LEI.QUALE EMOZIONE ! LA SUA VOCE,unica

Καμια σαν και αυτη...μοναδικη μεγαλη αξεπεραστη...

Sotiria bouboulina

fwnara me apla logia

Sotiria Bellou Freckles splatter your face Making you look like A silhouette of womankind Covered in lace over blood Over blood, your period Over the microphone comes Your period. Time after time Your period in pain and discomfort This song rises like the Prayer of a mystic Cryptically from a twenty- Year Old’s mouth. Your lips, once Taped shut by the government, Burst open with the strength From the period of laughter. The cross Of your handcuffs lock you into a life of hanging. Who can die not listening, when- Money, dripping blood, grins and winks at you? The seduction by wealth Could have captured your song. Singer of Outcasts. Outcast of Singers. Those who marched right, Marched right. No one reflected Blame. No one marched wrong. In the rooms in which you friends Bent this way and that Stretched over cane chairs into aches and pains Then beaten and lashed. You knew them all and sang about Their periods, as if they were your own. What beatings slept in your wallet? What lashing shone sunlight which Burned into broken vessels Of blood beneath you emotional skin? Your voice forces the hair on the back of My arms to stand erect and salute. The hair on the back of my neck Stabs through the fabric of my shirt Again and again and again. Born In the sorrows of August, Nineteen Twenty-One Dead in August of Nineteen Ninety-Seven, Your videoed presence makes me aware of heaven. You make me all uneven in My skin. Your voice singing Outcast songs injects itself Into my jaws and like a Dentist’s Novocain, tingles the Bite of my soul. Oh, glorious, Woman of all Outcasts, I am forced To believe in some sort of resurrection. If only to be able to hear you sing, re-lived.

Από τη μητέρα ήταν αρβανίτικης καταγωγής