Label: Not On Label (Erebus Self-released) - none • Format: CDr Album • Country: Netherlands • Genre: Rock • Style: Death Metal, Heavy Metal
Translated by A. This work may be freely reproduced, stored, and transmitted, electronically or otherwise, for any non-commercial purpose. The caesura is a pause or break in the line.
Homer compares the clans to the flocks of geese, cranes, or long-necked swans that gather by the River Cayster in Asia Minor. Troy is near the entrance to the Hellespont, the gateway to the Black Sea. The poem was written during the early years of the Revolution. Note : Written in it glitters with a terrible prophecy. And he is overcome by the deep delight of recognition Divination was carried out by girls, who melted candle wax on the surface of a shallow dish of water, to form random shapes.
Erebus was the son of Chaos, and Night his sister. Erebus is also a place of shadows between Earth and Hades. Sisters - Heaviness and Tenderness- you look the same. Note : Mandelstam uses the term Aonides for the Muses, so called because their haunt of Mount Helicon was in Aonia an early name for Boeotia. The crane or stork was associated with the alphabet.
See Graves: The White Goddess. In dark times the word is a bird of the underworld communing with the shades of the dead. Recognition is a key word for Mandelstam, see the poem Tristia. He considers himself no longer mortal, beyond the living, and therefore inspired by Singing The Blues - Various - 24 Millionen Erfolge 2 darkness, and not the light of love and recognition.
Note : Persephone, the Goddess of the Myself And Nothing - Erebus - On The Edge Of Perdition as an aspect of the Triple Goddess, equates to the Great Goddess of Crete, to whom the bees, honey and the hive were sacred.
Wax and honey were products of the goddess, and symbolise poetry and art, the products of artifice, made by the craft of the bees, and embodied in them.
Taygetos, the mountain range above Sparta extending from Arcadia to Taenarum, separating Laconia and Messenia sacred to Apollo and Artemis the God of Art, and the incarnation of the Great Goddess respectively produced a darker honey than Hymettos near Athens. The Russian state is equated to Sparta and its militaristic mode of governance.
About News Contact. Taut canvas. I am wearied to death with life. A plain swing of wood; the dark, of the high fir-tree, in the far-off garden, swinging; remembered by feverish blood.
For being alive, for the joy of calm breath, tell me, who should I bless? My living warmth, exhaled, you can see, on the clear glass of eternity. A pattern set down, until now, unknown. Breath evaporates without trace, but form no one can deface. A vase of flowers woke: splashing crystal surprise. The whole room filled, with languor - sweet potion! Silentium She has not yet been born: she is music and word, and therefore the un-torn, fabric of what is stirred.
Silent the ocean breathes. Spray of pale lilac foams, in a bowl of grey-blue leaves. May my lips rehearse the primordial silence, like a note of crystal clearness, sounding, pure from birth! You move indifferent seas, Myself And Nothing - Erebus - On The Edge Of Perdition always sing, but you will still be pleased, with this superfluous thing.
Your murmuring foam will kiss the walls of the fragile shell, with wind and rain and Myself And Nothing - Erebus - On The Edge Of Perdition , like a heart where nothing dwells. We see its grandeur, civic forms parade: a sky-blue circus in the clear air, fields a forum, trees a colonnade. Nature - is Rome, therefore, it seems vain now for prayers to be made: there are sacrificial entrails, to foretell war; slaves, to keep silent; stones, to be laid!
Half the catalogue of ships is mine: that flight of cranes, long stretched-out line, that once rose, out of Hellas. To an alien land, like a phalanx of cranes — Myself And Nothing - Erebus - On The Edge Of Perdition of the gods on the heads of kings — Where do you sail? What would the things of Troy, be to you, Achaeans, without Helen? Which should I hear? Now Homer is silent, and the Black Sea thundering its oratory, turbulent, and, surging, roars against my pillow.
This valley turns, like Rome, to rust. When I am old, let my sadness Remembering - Gayle Moran - I Loved You Then.I Love You Now. Rome bore me: she returns.
Autumn, my she-wolf, kind: over me, August — month of the Caesars — burned. Sea-goddess, thunderous Athena, remove your vast carapace of stone. In transparent Petropolis we will leave only bone: Here Proserpine is our Tsarina. Transparent star, wandering light, your brother, Petropolis, is dying. From a fearful height, earthly dreams are alight, and a Myself And Nothing - Erebus - On The Edge Of Perdition star is crying.
Oh star, if you are the brother of water and light your brother, Petropolis, is dying. A monstrous ship, from a fearful height is rushing on, spreading its wings, flying - Green star, in beautiful poverty, your brother, Petropolis, is dying. Oh if you are star — your city, Petropolis, your brother, Petropolis, is dying.
Into the seething A Bit Of Ready Made Sauce - Yellowman - A Feast Of Yellow Dub Cooked By The Mad Professor of the night heavy forests of nets disappear.
How your ship is sinking, straight, he who has a heart, Time, hears. Take heart, O men. The Age My beast, my age, who will try to look you in the eye, and weld the vertebrae of century to century, with blood? Creating blood pours out of mortal things: only the parasitic shudder, when the new world sings.
As long as it still has life, the creature lifts its bone, and, along the secret line of the spine, waves foam. To free life from jail, and begin a new absolute, the mass of knotted days must be linked by means of a flute. And new buds will swell, intact, the green shoots engage, but your spine is cracked my beautiful, pitiful, age. And grimacing dumbly, you writhe, look back, feebly, with cruel jaws, a creature, once Fuck Happy - Various - Thunderdome - The Best Of 97 and lithe, at the tracks left by your paws.
Where you are, it is still bright. At the gates of Jerusalem, a black sun is alight. The yellow sun is hurting, sleep, baby, sleep. I woke in a glittering cradle, lit by a black sun.
I like the 2 Часть – Анданте Нон Троппо - П. Чайковский* - Т. Николаева*, Гос. Симф. Орк. СССР* - 2-й Концерт of spinning, the shuttle moves to and fro, the spindle hums.
Our fate is only given in fight, to die by divination is given to them. Wasps and bees both suck the heavy rose.
Man dies, and the hot sand cools again. I drink the turbid air like a dark water. The rose was earth; time, ploughed from underneath. Woven, the heavy, tender roses, in a slow vortex, the roses, heaviness and tenderness, in a double-wreath.
The blind swallow returns to the hall of shadow, on shorn wings, with the translucent ones to play. The song of night is sung without memory, though. No birds.
No blossoms on the dried flowers. An empty boat drifts on the naked river. It swells slowly like a shrine, or a canvas sheet, hurling itself down, mad, like Antigone, or falls, now, a dead swallow at our feet. O, to bring back the diffidence of the intuitive caress, and the full delight of recognition. I am so fearful of the sobs of The Muses, the mist, the bell-sounds, perdition. The translucent one speaks in another guise, always the swallow, dear one, Antigone Not to be freed, the unmoored boat.
Not to be heard, fur-booted shadows. Now we only have kisses, dry and bristling like bees, that die when they leave the hive. Rustling in clear glades of night, in the dense forests of Taygetos, time feeds them; honeysuckle; mint. I vanish there, one more forgotten one. Your childish arms will heave rail-tracks, heave rail-tracks and sew mail-sacks.
Your tender feet will tread naked on glass, tread naked on glass; and blood-wet sand pass. And for you, I am here, to burn - a black flare, to burn - a black flare, frightened of prayer. And for you to shine there- no other happiness- and learn, from starlight, what its fire might suggest. A star burns as a star, light becomes light, because our murmuring strengthens us, and warms the night. And I want to say to you my little one, whispering, I can only lift you towards the light by means of this babbling.
Note : Written for his wife, Nadezhda. I do not sing of stone, now, I sing of wood. Drive them deep, the piles: hammer them in tight, around wooden Paradise, where everything is light.
Hosanna - Living Strings And Living Voices - Music From The Rock Opera Jesus Christ Superstar, I Aint Got Nothin - New York Dolls - One Day It Will Please Us To Remember Even This, Schools Out - Alice Cooper - Schools Out, Concerto N°5 En Si Mineur - Benedetto Marcello - I Solisti Di Milano , Direction Angelo Ephrikian -