In Flames
The Jester Race
Moonshield
Tried of dull ages, I walk the same ground,
collecting the tragedies still
Hollow ambitions in a hollow mind
carried my cross to the hill
And how I lust for the dance and the fire
deep of the nectarine sunset to drink
spill me the wind and its fire
to steal of the colours - I´m the moonshield
Shattered hope became my guide
and grief and pain my friends
a brother pact in blood-ink penned
declared my silent end
Naked and dying under worlds of silent stone
reaching for the moonshield that once upon us shone
The Jester´s Dance
Instrumental
Artifacts Of The Black Rain
Stood there leaning to the city moon,
casting silhouettes tall to grip her white rooms
the black-clad voyeur in his black-clad masque
in the serpentine sun of tragedy basked
Stood there cursing at the soul-dead mass
with their fabled illusions, the vain dreams that passed
splinters of a life rushing by in the whirl
a lone, silent warrior in a fantasy world
He cried for night / but night could not come
so, swept in the shroud of Misanthropia he went away
and fed the empty galleries
with the artifacts of the black rain
sunken into the shadows with a dry, sardonic smile
He made the footprints a part of his heart
to rouse a sacred confrontation
Stood there carving on the monument to lies
digging of the earth, making friends with the soil
as the all-mother rises and bares her bleeding thighs
he disappears into her cold, icy womb
Graveland
Mankind - proud conqueror and king
swings its flag of primal glory to the winds
Titans of the power-myth that failed
Neanderthal hunger for the flesh of war so frail
So weak, so hollow-minded
the primat flock responds
the jester race submits
For each day of war is a failure for man,
enslaved to her mordial genes
Illusions bleed from their fetid cores
bent to their rotten extremes
We, the plague of Terra Firma,
nature´s grand and last mistake
plant the poisoned seed of cancer,
set the severed fruits awake
Burning like frozen relics
in god´s archaic graveland
Burn the visionaire
Kill the ideologies
Mankind must die
The doves and the angels return to their graves
with flames on their pestilent wings
while mushroom-clouds haunt their virginwhite skies
to rape their utopian dreams
Living the last days of evolution´s end
from the nest of humanity, the graveland vultures rend
Lord Hypnos
I lie in your soothing arms, lord Hypnos
your garment alive with your song
I lie in your soothing arms, lord Hypnos
Steep the spiral to your far abode
in the wake of slumber, on visions I rode
and fell like history through the chasm of ages
into the charged, forbidden zones
How I have searched
through a million worlds and faces
yet unaware, I have not found
my own true face, traceless and profound
So, find me in these grandiose halls
where long ago summers eternally fall
and tune the strings of truthful longing
to the frozen music of gods
Hypnagonia´s lucid horizons
play with the yearning I´ve quelled
as I strike towards the Pantheon
and what therein is held
Dead Eternity
You´ll never be alone again
You´ll never die again
You´ll never be born again
You´ll forever be, stuck here in eternity
I bid you welcome to my world
They call me existence
You have just entered through the gate
to your journey towards eternity
This part i control
In the beginning you´ll fear nothing
As I climb beside you
Time will be your master
in this laborious part of human subsistence
This part i control
Black clouds embraces your soul
Slowly passing through repeating lacunas of anguish
When time takes your life
I will transfer you into the bare grip of thinking twanquility
Voices frilling the emptiness of the dead floating
Seamless across the surface into chilling stillness
Nothing can help you now
The Jester Race
Rush faster on the one-way lane
the answers so silent
Rysty gods in their machine-mind armours
grind our souls in the millstone of time
the "deathbed harvest" is a dead man´s banquet
of mould ridden bread and black, poisoned wine
And we go... our step so silent
And we go... our blooded trace
the Jester Race
Calling our to the gathered masses
their answers so silent
And we go...
Embracing the tools of the neo-wolf age
that speak of silence and silence alone
Offering the tokens, the reliced idols
to the heirs of the newly raped ground
inferior even to the transparent winds
- lesser in motion and sound
And we go...
There is no trace of me
in their altered blueprints of life
Gala impaled on their horns and lances
the fumes from her body give chase
as the strong of blind men savour the scent,
dream-dead from Prosaic and hate
-epilogue-
"Sunwind strokes the ElectroHeart,
ignition roars through the corridors,
stream launching the binary vessels"
Vanities in extreme formations
ride into tomorrow´s rigid great face
The Machinery outlives the futile scripts
of our dying jester race
December Flower
Towards the rich archaic heavens; towards the lack diorama
you are the artist of the texture
that plays with the mantle of the earth
When the bleakest of powders
lie rooted to the starched stones
and roots that feed the peaking trees
embrace the sleeping shores
Archaic pearls of sleep and death
the voice of December losing its breath
and the floweryard of white and grey is haunted
White as the down of flaking snow,
the heroic emblems of life
Green is the colour of my death
as in winter-guise I swoop towards the ground
Green is the landscape of my sorrowfilled passing
We are In Flames
towards the dead archaic heavens
We Are The Mantle And The Texture
the alters the mantle of the earth
Wayfaerer
Instrumental
Dead God In Me
To slit the grinning wounds
from childhood´s Seven Moons
the palette stained with the ejaculated passions
(of forbidden, hedonistic colours...)
Strike from omnipotence, all-seer, all-deemer,
and haunt my severed country
with your dripping, secret games
You picked the unripe lilies,
deflored and peeled the bleeding petals
made known to me
the grainy stains, the crimson lotus
of the Black-Ash Inheritance,
the semen feed of gods and masters
The worms still in me,
still a part of me,
racing out from leaking rooms,
swoop from broken lungs to block the transmission
to put an end to the nomad years
father you
are the
dead god
in me
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