"Twilight Before Sunrise (Alvenfall)" 2002
Here, among stonewalls, the scintillate streams are poured by the magic light.
It run above worldwide, and look, listen, feel...
When it occur here, it mysterious luminescence, merging with radiant energy of starlight,
is reconstructs the images of departed. I see the shadows of the friends and enemies.
Sometimes they stay to get warm at my fire, and sometimes they spatter the stream,
aspiring to fill and kill the heat, bestow to them, forgetting that they are only the shadows...
When I've lost myself,
I've lost my thoughts, passions and desires,
only grey thick fog of oblivion remained,
devouring all around, bitter taste of sorrow
on my lips remained,
and a sharp blade,
cutting to pieces
the sole mind self-confidence dogma, created through many long years by the blind faith.
Torn waste remained,
a waste of a piece of bygone truth,
decaying like a rotten substance
under the fingers.
Hot water remained, red-hue hot water in the bathroom, on a material ground;
very blunt but already native tender knife in unruly hands...
The blind faith has been betrayed,
rich pulp of a dream has lost its taste.
Lots of mirrors surround me,
in them I see conceited images of the ones with whom I had
the honour to enjoy the appearance
of the same world in the past.
When they see me, so amorphous now,
they break their mirrors ensuring legal
independence and spiritual firmness
for themselves. I lie on the crossing of floor and cosmos:
my physical body is too exhausted to move
- there's no direction,
and I, heeding not the thousands of voices
from below and from above,
trying to keep on a thin skilfully finished
bridge, I walk down The Chosen Path.
But memories come back,
and shining fragments of the beautiful carved
railing of the bridge
fall down into the abyss…
When I've lost myself,
I've lost my thoughts, passions and desires,
only grey thick fog of oblivion remained,
devouring all around, bitter taste of sorrow
on my lips remained,
and a sharp blade….
the railing has never existed,
and below the thick rotten fog shrouds my feet:
if a wound is to heal over, it must ache...
...In the impenetrable fog
lives only the thing reviving in you.
Feet have got used to a firm ground - there's no hope for them.
Only thoughts have power here.
Here they take form and content,
here they rule over their owners,
or on the contrary,
bring them to the initial chaos
on the wings of inspired stream of will.
What has remained in me?
Everything that could be my enemy
here is now dead in me;
everything that occasionally captivated me,
making me forget about anything else for a while,
- it has been burnt out with glowing needle
in a skilled workman's refined hands;
all that, that I was so proud
of its presence before,
and its absence is my pride now.
Only from this side of the eternity
the truth can be seen in it.
The precious sorrow -
deep-black fragrance
of thick bitter smell of wormwood;
cold fragment of a sorrowful tear
which turned to ice of hopelessness;
invaluable elixir,
burning out mortal remains
of deceptive aspirations which have settled inside
with rusty-grey stains;
letting a blind to see
and a sighted - to see the light;
letting a dead
to resurrect and a living - to transmigrate.
Waters of dark streams
under the railingless bridge are cold,
feet stick in the swirling cloud of fog,
but I believe and I know that I'll have enough
strength to move forward without using them.
... And here comes the moment
when boundary between truth
and lie becomes erased:
lie becomes truth and truth becomes lie.
All this seems to be sincerely authentic
as before, up to vice-versa.
The next treacherous stab in the back befalls
me when I just begin to be steady on my legs and look around.
Again the world becomes grey-coloured and Stains
of Darkness whirl around me in their charming dance.
They want me to stay with them.
Lights of malicious joy and fortaste
of forthcoming victory played
in your eyes today,
and your mentor being
the other one's servant
didn't miss the opportunity
to speak aloud what I clearly
saw myself:
there's no need to open the eyes for that...
Ooze-covered stagnant water doesn't reflect
my image now,
the wind now got stuck in the trees' branches;
sorrowful plaintive voices already
bemoan my ruined life, but it's vainly:
even death have betrayed me.
The most hated friend became
the most loved enemy.
The moon with single eye
half-opened with no interest
contemplates what is taking place,
considering the matter almost finished.
But it's vainly:
even death have betrayed me.
...It's so dark and mysterious here;
appearing images embody my wrath
and repentance with varied success.
Do you like this place?
I want to talk to you... Now I know everything.
Why aren't you laughing?
After all, it was hidden so carefully
in the beautiful chest with rotten and rusty locks...
The only thing was not considered:
all the charm of a miracle is that it happens.
A cat often falls
into a rat-trap and dies there,
although they have
the same goal...
I pity you.
Flowing with fowaming jets down
the smoothed by time grey-brown stones,
a seething flow
discharges into a shallow
mouth of bewitched stream,
flowing under the ancient bridge.
Creaking and rusty,
corroded by centuries,
yet it haven't loose the ability of being itself.
Grey and transluscent stream is so shallow that it's possible
with rapture to look over the mysterious bottom
remembering everyone
who walked up to it.
Scenes from the past arise:
sacred wars in the name of death,
splendid feats - in the name
of everyone's unawareness of them.
Gleams of the stars,
tossing in chaotic dancing of eternity,
play with feelings
on the surface of nocturnal stream.
Running water takes away
sorrow and brings grief...
And the bridge
listens, feels and remembers...
Moonlight glade near the bridge
yet preserves the warmth of my hands
and is listening to my steps,
inhaling the fragrance of the night
with a canopy of crowns looming in the hight.
Far away, on the other side of the stream,
high above the ground, every evening in twilight
coming down, a castle appears. At first sight it seems
to consist of tree branches.
It remains the same for some.
In the castle only two windows
have light: on high
- in the tower, and at the side
- in the room of wishes.
I've being watching the castle for long.
It has being watching me as well,
and also those who visit this place too.
Probably it was a pleasure to destroy it,
betray its trust, recoil from its devotion
like from the fire, and shrink from its clear feelings.
Tell me about it...
And the spirit of the castle,
crippled by oblivion
and beaten by falling debris,
is sitting on the ruins and waiting
with patience for your return,
still believing that all that have happened just
seemed to him.
high above the ground, every evening in twilight
coming down, a castle appears. At first sight it seems
to consist of tree branches.
It remains the same for some.
In the castle only two windows
have light: on high…
My mysterion stream -
endless way to eternity,
my mysterion stream,
take away my sorrow to Lethe…
Instrumental
Upon a time
when I persistently believed
in devotion and honour,
they layed me with hundred of stones
into my underground hall
meanwhile I was enjoying
in ray of light,
that was getting thinner day after day.
They thought having betrayed me
they won, but they wery so wrong,
Here I have seen My own Darkness,
and I was speaking to her.
I was both loving and hating Her,
She had teach me to take pleasure
in starlight though stone blockade
of feelings and closed lids of eternity.
All this time I had Spirit Of Cold War
by my side, as negative aspect
of emotions that still alive.
He was gnawing on my bones
and sucking out
my joys and pleasures.
But he was defeated by me
and had flown away because
of impossible conditions for his existence.
He had flown to you...
You have deceived him,
you promised him
easy and sweet prey...
But he obtained just some bitter bones
and terrible wound through his very heart.
He is malicious and hungry,
and he is searching for you!
...and night will come
when something cold will touch your neck,
than you will see than grey face
distorted by malice and pain.
And stolen part of me,
that I was yearning to give you,
will gaze at you through his black eyes.
So you selfishly have enjoy in alien,
dead light within your outlife,
and having haughtly despised it,
you choose alien, perverted darkness...
Mother Tongue speaks to Me,
in the strongest way I've ever seen
I know that she sees in Me,
Her proudest child, her purest breed
She speaks to Me in colours,
that I can't really understand
I only know that they are ours,
and to those I'll proudly bend
For I am your only child,
and you my dearest mystery
From an ancient throne I defy the world,
to kneel before the Power within.
For I am your only child,
and you my dearest mystery
World can't you see it?
Am I alone in my belief?
Virando costas ao Mundo,
orgulhosamente sós
Glória Antiga, volta a nós!
ALMA MATER!
Breaking waves announce my Bride,
it is the only way the Sea could sing
Legends of Lusitanian pride
he sings the words I cannot spring
At the Moon Mountain six wolves cry,
your lost glory we'll regain or die
For I am her only child,
and she is my dearest mystery
Pagan Gods in conspiracy
for the sword of Tyranny
Mother Tongue has spoke to thee
in the strongest way they've ever seen
World can't you see?
I am not alone in my belief.
Virando costas ao Mundo,
orgulhosamente sós
Glória Antiga, volta a nós!
ALMA MATER!
Mother Tongue has spoke to Me,
in the strongest way I've ever seen
I know that she sees in Me,
Her proudest child, her purest breed
She speaks to Me in colours,
I can't really understand
I only know that they are ours,
and to those I'll proudly bend
For I am her only child,
and she is my dearest mystery
From an ancient throne I defy the world,
to kneel before the powers within.
For I am her only child,
and she is my dearest tragedy
World can't you see it?
I am not alone in my belief.
Virando costas ao Mundo,
orgulhosamente sós
Glória Antiga, volta a nós!
ALMA MATER!
When there will come that treasured hour,
I shall be already ready to this.
Ìó consciousness will not stop on the separate moments of life,
equally, well as my sight on external shape.
I shall feel each idea and smell everyone of flower,
each occurrence of a rainbow and each beat of your heart.
And then she will come to me,
not opening the doors before her.
Her golden hair will beatific develop on a wind,
and on the person, decorated with light of complete,
the beatific a smile
is illuminate me by the lambent light.
Despite on iridescent shine,
I no matter, shall notice the not shown
grief of long centuries on this perfect face,
and crack a smile in reply,
though the tears will flow on my face
the , and my heart will be broken off in twain.
By a unambiguous sight she tenderly
will give to understand, that, last time,
the time has come, and we, having undertaken
for hands, shall step in eternity. …
And my enemies will see thus only the old woman,
entering to me,
with pursy face and in the torn off gray raincoat.
She will wink at them and will correct sharp scythe on a shoulder.
