Nocte Obducta - Und Pan spielt die Flöte (English translation)

English translation

Und Pan spielt die Flöte

An elixir from cold urns ran lively in our blood
The common people in the mud spoke false and stirred our anger
Like fairytales writings were made about us and forgotten songs
Visited us in our dreams, came back again and again
And in spite of the curses and the anger there was (still) space for cheery words
We were laughing since we still believed in other better places
A mild smile because of the disgusting creepers' stupid actings *
But soon everything was far behind and seemed to me like melted
 
The bones of these days will never be forgotten
When Lethes flood engulfes, the times will also be elapsed
Because nothing has ever been burried and what’s left are cenotaphes
And a look back, along the path, which began somewhere
 
Even today, before the beginning of spring, my gaze isn’t looking too long
On the other side of the river for the big, bare trees
And when behind me the sun is sinking blood-red like brass
The cold wood is shining warm and sends me new dreams
And this river, which has seen a lot and has taken a lot with it
What would happen if it rests like a lake, not running but standing still
And everything would keep save everything that you’d give to it
Would my reflection in the river be another picture then?
 
What’s left, are many words, most of them not being written down
What’s left, are beautiful pictures, most of them not being painted
And dreams that keep, what is still waiting for fulfillment
And the hope that one day the old glory shines
What’s left, are those lines, which feel more than they say
What’s left, are those songs, which sound from a thousand dreams
And a lot will be lost, nobody will be able to find it
But somebody will still be singing those songs someday
 
When one night spring arrived, it brought joy
Created symbols of the love of life and never known freedom
But still wrote fables of grief in my dreams
And myths of a dead past full of world-weariness
 
Out of the darkness we constructed new paths were created
Those knew a way to the light, though they were full of black
The dizziness of the feelings was the herdsman of these ways
Because the aim of those journeys was a reflection of the hearts
 
Desperation and ecstasy were inseperable intertwined
The contradiction in everything seemed to be mocking on itself
The greed to feel the pain, was shouting from my hot temples
And around our castle of refuge a world view seemed to rot
 
In cold catacombs horrible visions grew
And under a young sky the old peace was dying
And still seemed to ridicule a distorted image of itself **
and fell on all the freaks that were avoiding us
 
Thus hatred and love were united inseperable
Thus the way to new banks was not to be seen clearly
This way was the only path, we were able understand
Thus we felt not without pain the beloved one’s icy claws
 
And all of a sudden I saw nobody else than creators in the mirrors
And worlds, I’d last seen in my childhood days
The conflict between dream and survival created a chaos
That, under pain but still smiling, gave birth to a new world
 
and thus words arose, that met deaf ears
Like artefacts of a dream in a dead world
Gestures given to the blind majority for consumption
What (happens), when the last bard falls into this world irrecoverably
 
Desîhra’s diary
Writes with my heart’s blood
About madness and wisdom
In rich decorated letters
Desîhra’s diary
Knows about an old curse
Reads between all lines
In lightly yellowed leaves
 
“See the dolls, they are dancing
in crepuscular ailing light
Look at the eyes, the pain and the fear
The horror in the smiling face of the doll
See those lovely dresses
The twitching on shaking feet
The dissonance of the tones, the cacaphony
A frigthening picture, to sweeten oneself’s time"
 
Sweet are the fruits, but rotten the roots
Even when spring arrived with potent forebode
In the branches the birds with icecold eyes
They sing about nothing but the end of the world
 
So bring us the golden apples, because those ones, in which the north believes in,
are marvellous gardeners,... though we are fearing the „eternal“
 
But nothing is like it has been once
And thus the “eternal” also died
The fruits which brought what we were seeking for
Are beautiful but long spoiled
 
far away from the merlons of blinded fuss ***
out there, far behind the gates
lies nearly unattainable the land, that we were searching for
The “future” is not yet irretrievably lost
 
… and Pan plays the flute
 
Submitted by Steena on Thu, 09/10/2008 - 21:00
German

Und Pan spielt die Flöte

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