That day atop the hill with my song, Slouching towards desolation, In ash and earth and in my penitent robes, Listening for the thin voice of forgiveness, My future trembling at the promise of more darkness, Hopes bared to the foul will of godly silence, Arriving bitter into the valley; a great king uncrowned.
“...they make tale of a bleak man and his brothers; bleak man of the Vale who buried his brothers one after the other...seven I think they were; a mighty great number each driven into the ground.”
“Pale things, pale Vale, pale this, pale that...thrown around...scattered...not quite coherent; and many conversations have been had but I can’t quite put my finger on it, the first time that he announced-” Tell me, did you ever dare God to kill you? Does your knowledge of woe ever enrich you? Is your gratitude for suffering the measure of your worth? What does your lack of mirth aim to teach you?
Oh you coward, I will kill you! Oh you coward, how I loathe you! Oh you coward, I will teach you, A bitter song to decompose you!
Bitter! Bitter! Bitter! Bitter!
And forth into the vale of primordial tears, Dreams solemnly passing from darkness to darkness, Rendering silent the hubris of religious doctrine, Heeding the ancient voice of frail wisdom, My future ready for the violence of peace, The sorrows of joy that anoint the godly silence, The Sun ignores the valley for every breath there is soon buried. Tell me; Did You Ever Dare God To Kill You? B) Hunter and Gatherer
The pale thing of the Vale grieves again, This time in another's arms, suckling and tender, As one once joyful succumbs to one mortally dreadful, The weeping willows, the silky forest that knows all crime, Combine and defend, cavort and assuage, The spiteful turn of heaven born, hellish-like wind. The fault has been awarded the pale man who upon this enchantment fell, No love cares long for the barren, A rich mouth that sings no song, A savage hideous heart forever thankless, Bland and sullen in its sorry disposition of imitated carnage.
And surely much vanity is willfully buried beneath the flesh of incompetence; I agree with this and with all I've bloodied, From my desperate role as hunter, Gods I once parodied, fashioned and accused, Worry with me in this bloodless hour, More so now that I am heartily refused entrance in this forest of the lies I sired, Fling my worship into my face; see the savage disgraced, But wholesome and without plea or substance to the grief; charming though it is, As the poignant Vale of Amonition.
Dust and Rosewrath grace the grave, In a hue of ashes and flowering decay, Of a style Abyssinian and dourly brave, In conforming to regulations of the slain, To honour and uphold the last available slave; seal the fate of the flesh of that sufferer, Who summoned the chaos of hunter and gatherer, To seed through violence the virtue of endurance; pale gray Vale.Teksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
