A Forest of Stars все тексты (слова) песен, переводы, видео, клипы

I can hear them ranting.
Like a choir of angels, those cunts.

Not singing nor dancing here;
All eyes down for the casting.
Spell trough scraped dry.

Practising our sincerest sorrows;

Female

The moon pushed the sun down the spiral-staircase of time
Bright neck broken, twisted beyond repair
So now there's only darkness standing there
Arms outstretched/predatory parasite
Vacant light
From the tunnel of night.

He's a man of the world, but his is a small world,
being a world whirled and whipped inside a filth caked skull.
All a dalliance in delusion, all dreamed down in narcotic seclusion,
he peeps all askance through all and sundry;
three dimension unreality his fourth dimension play-day.
All eternity a rainy Sunday.
He, a builder of worlds in dreams.
He, a destroyer of worlds in dreams.

Silence shattered like ice, incipit rage in myriad voices of the wind
All light now absent as the banshees howl
No solace in the maelstrom.

-Even the sun's afraid to rise around here-

It's ice cold as far as the eye can see
Relentless winter restraining the new mourning rays.

Nothing now but cages and railings
All topped with barbs
Even the weather's apologetic
Sees no rhyme or reason
All exits barred now
Love left lonely, gave way to the grave
Left my smile somewhere on the journey between that and loss

Face down in the dust of their blasted utopia
razors scrape obtuse angels into manageable lines

eyes brimming with chemical repulse
nostrils crusted with manifold millennia of dried up mortification
...of spiritual fabrication.

inhaling the future, new orifices torn for those sexless angels.

I won't just steal your thunder, I'll have your lightning as well.
As crushing blow of hammer, annihilating those grating steeple bells. As hairline cracks to fragments!
Standing up on high, spraying golden rain down on to the waiting faces of you pious, worthless swine...
Hear my sermon splashing down all around you, children. We would not even waste one single match on you trough-fed, hook-lined, soul-sunk bottom-feeders. Never mind chapter and so-called verse.
I shall instead content myself with loosing my bowels upon you to drown your herd in a flurry of slurry. Soul starved bodies crushed, throats stuffed with my falling angels.
Yours, in mocking memory! After all, you are only worthwhile as fertilizer...
To the gallows with your lack of humour! You, who do not play well with words!
Hammer blow upon hammer blow. Hammer blow upon hammer blow. Upon Eternity's Anvil!

Dusk, she is the calming influence, making ends meet in a place of concentric corners.
She cleanses these gutters with her utmost purity. Onrushing dark leaves your false light lonely.
Her frozen kiss devoid of apology. Setting cleansing fires to guide the rest of us through the night by.
When we once again arrive in struggling shine of dawn, memories of her ice shall gird us on our way...
For all the friends we left behind, for lost summers and eyes gone blind. For the kiss of blade on desperate flesh, for light shrouded only in funeral dress. For all tears mingled with bad blood, awaiting sentencing for hearts taken, but not understood.
For all mislaid foundation stones, for all smiles cracked wide open. For all beauty turned to ash, for all flames in deluge doused. For all fear all encompassing.
One for sorrow. Two to destroy.

There is a fear here.
Azrael has a finger on my pulse.
His infinity is not so far removed,
from the Metatrons' babbling insanities.
Music of the Spheres bouncing,
as infinite echoes bickering in this rubber tomb.
Whom God helps? None but itself. So if God is death, death is god, yes?

Our sky, she's full of lights, glinting through all that dark, uncaring.
The Rats on the Moon are shielding their eyes, against the creeping, the crawling...
All that so-called useless DNA. Sharp colours teased to a gleam... –Doesn't matter– Refracted inaction... ...remains inaction.
This cursed recursive loop ∞ pure comedy. Soon ye shall be razed in flame.
HA!
How does that fire feel climbing up your back? Still grabbing with those thieving little hands?
So we strive to lift up our heads against the nowhere, before you blot out Mother's summersphere.
One fist may resolve nothing, but many fists shall knock you flat. One projection may be simple refraction, but many, well, they equal reaction.

Some of my favourite messiahs are dead.
You may perhaps be nervous that the endings are wearing thin.

So much grist for so many mills.
So little point in taking offence.

I've rolled with all the punches, and not even come up drunk.
Danced around the guiding lights, got perhaps a little lost in the dazzle of lamps.