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Within the Realm of a Dying Sun
Miscellaneous:
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| Written by:
Brendan Perry and Lisa Gerrard Produced by: Dead Can Dance and John A. Rivers |
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We scale the face of reason to find at least one sign
that could reveal the true dimension of life lest we forget.
And maybe it's easier to withdraw from life with all of it's misery and wretched
lies.
Away from harm.
We lay by cool clear waters and gazed into the sun.
And like the moths great imperfection succumbed to her fatal charms.
And maybe it's me who dreams unrequited love,the victim of fools who stand in
line.
Away from harm.
In our vain pursuit of life for ones own end,
will this crooked path ever cease to end.
Hey Patrice don't cry they have no reason to harm you at all.
They don't realise that the angels surround you with light.
They don't understand their narrow ways defeat them where they stand.
They don't realise you hide your sadness behind a painted smile.
Ignorance,that blind old fool who steers a wayward path,
has set the course on which we sail into a night of uncertainty.
Following the stars that make their way across the sky,
Valuing the love that lends grace to our hearts,
we sail.
Fair Rosanna your vagrany's a familiar tale.
Fraught with danger,the lives you led were judged profane.
Hatred enfolds us,inculcates our minds with it's heresy.
Laymen enfold us,clemency arise to set you free.
Fate,Arvo Rosannia has prayed that life giving waters may rain
down on the souls of men to cure them of their ways.
These were the sins of Xaviers past,hung like jewels in the forest of veils.
Deep in the heart where the mysteries emerge Eve bears the stigma of original
sin.
Freedoms so hard, when we are all bound by laws
etched in the scheme of natures own hand,
unseen by all those who fail in their pursuit of fate.
Arvo Rosannia has prayed that life giving waters may rain
down on the souls of men to cure them of their ways
And as the night turns into day will the sun illuminate your way,
or will your nightmares come home to stay.
Xaviers love lies in chains.
These were the sins of Xaviers past,hung like jewels in the forest of veils.
By Charles Baudelaire
This life is a hospital where every patient is possessed with the desire to
change beds;
one man would like to suffer in front of the stove,
and another believes that he would recover his health beside the window.
It always seems to me that I should feel well in the place where I am not,
and this question of removal is one which I discuss incessantly with my soul.
'Tell me, my soul, my poor chilled soul, what do you think of going to live in
Lisbon?
It must be warm there, and there you would invigorate yourself like a lizard.
This city is on the sea-shore; they say that it is built of marble
and that the people there have such a hatred of vegetation that they uproot all
the trees.
There you have a landscape that corresponds to your taste!
a landscape made of light and mineral, and liquid to reflect them!'
My soul does not reply.
'Since you are so fond of stillness, coupled with the show of movement,
would you like to settle in Holland, that beautifying country?
Perhaps you would find some diversion in that land whose image
you have so often admired in the art galleries.
What do you think of Rotterdam, you who love forests of masts,
as ships moored at the foot of houses?'
My soul remains silent.
'Perhaps Batavia attracts you more? There we should find,
amongst other things, the spirit of Europe married to tropical beauty.'
Not a word. Could my soul be dead?
'Is it that you have reached such a degree of lethargy that you acquiesce in
your sickness?
If so, let us flee to lands that are analogues of death.
I see how it is, poor soul! We shall pack our trunks for Tornio.
Let us go farther still to the extreme end of the Baltic; or farther still from
life,
if that is possible; let us settle at the Pole. There the sun only grazes the
earth obliquely,
and the slow alternation of light and darkness suppresses variety and increases
monotony,
that half-nothingness. There we shall be able to take long baths of darkness,
while for our amusement the aurora borealis shall send us its rose-colored rays
that are like the reflection of Hell's own fireworks!'
At last my soul explodes, and wisely cries out to me:
'No matter where! No matter where! As long as it's out of the world!'
By Charles Baudelaire
Cette vie est un hôpital ou chaque malade est
possédé du désir de changer de lit.
Celui-ci voudrait souffrir en face du poële,
et celui-la croit qu'il guérirait a côté de la fenetre.
Il me semble que je serais toujours bien la ou je ne suis pas,
et cette question de déménagement en est une
que je discute sans cesse avec mon âme.
"Dis-moi, mon âme, pauvre âme refroidie,
que penserais-tu d'aller d'habiter Lisbonne?
Il doit y faire chaud, et tu t'y ragaillardirais comme un lézard.
Cette ville est au bord de l'eau;
on dit qu'elle est bâtie en marbre,
et que le peuple y a une telle haine du végétal,
qu'il arrache tous les arbres.
Voila un paysage selon ton gout;
un paysage fait avec la lumiere et le minéral,
et le liquide pour les réfléchir!"
Mon âme ne répond pas.
"Puisque tu aimes tant le repos,
avec le spectacle du mouvement,
veux-tu venir habiter la Hollande,
cette terre béatifiante?
Peut-etre te divertiras-tu dans cette contrée
dont tu as souvent admiré l'image dans les musées.
Que penserais-tu de Rotterdam,
toi qui aimes les forets de mâts,
et les navires amarrés au pied des maisons?"
Mon âme reste muette.
"Batavia te sourirait peut-etre davantage?
Nous y trouverions d'ailleurs l'esprit
de l'Europe marié a la beauté tropicale."
Pas un mot. Mon âme serait-elle morte?
"En es-tu donc venue a ce point d'engourdissement
que tu ne te plaises que dans ton mal?
S'il en est ainsi,
fuyons vers les pays qui sont les analogies de la Mort.
Je tiens notre affaire, pauvre âme!
Nous ferons nos malles pour Tornéo.
Allons plus loin encore,
a l'extreme bout de la Baltique;
encore plus loin de la vie, si c'est possible;
installons-nous au pôle.
La le soleil ne frise qu'obliquement la terre,
et les lentes alternatives de la lumiere
et de la nuit suppriment la variété et augmentent la monotonie,
cette moitié du néant.
La, nous pourrons prendre de longs bains de ténebres,
cependant que, pour nous divertir,
les aurores boréales nous enverront de temps en temps leurs gerbes roses,
comme des reflets d'un feu d'artifice de l'Enfer!"
Enfin, mon âme fait explosion, et sagement elle me crie:
"N'importe ou! n'importe ou!
pourvu que ce soit hors de ce monde!"