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作曲 : Anna-Varney Cantodea |
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作词 : Anna-Varney Cantodea |
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There's not a shred of beauty here |
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residing in the human flesh, |
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there's only sadness and confusion, |
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and the stench of shit and death. |
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In moments, dull, of self-pity |
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of insufficiency and doubt, |
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I catch myself, black-handed thief |
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wishing that there'd be someone else. |
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Sometimes ghosts are passing through |
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the mind, both labyrinth and tomb, |
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and yet it's still unrivalled here, |
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Because all things unborn, only ideas, |
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are sleeping safely far beyond the horrors of decay, |
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and are thus sacred and immortal, |
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because they never had to fade. |
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Thumbing at times harlf-heartedly |
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through flip-books of a lonely child, |
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old silent movies shake and flicker |
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in the dark theatre between my thighs. |
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Then countless are the heads and limbs that wildly jump atop |
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soulless bodies, unspecific, |
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as they are numberless and cropped. |
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When you close your tired eyes, |
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does he then join you in this place ? |
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Will he cross over, share your dream, |
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or does he vanish on the doorstep, |
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all too quickly disappear ? |
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Alas reality is such a crippled whore, |
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all mortal things are sick and rotten to the core, |
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only the mind, that frail, but kingly jewel, |
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gives birth to beauty, love and truth. |
