Transcendence Into the Peripheral
Album - 1 settembre 1993 - Debaser id 4422

Through the winding forest where the bodies of
Disillusioned peasants lay in the catacombs,
Gothic oakwood may once again take its real form
And grasp for Your soul,
As the night falls,
Green turns to the colour which brings forth the eternal rest,
Reach forth and separate the mystical branch
As the moon is surpassed by a blanket of unholy cloud
And echoed shrieks,
Ambience of the dark evolves from beyond the divine nightshade,
Faraway from the forest,
The souls of the dead travel beneath the earths soil to arrive
At the tree of life and death,
Now a disoriented monk banished from the order finds solace
Within the cold surroundings of the untouched ground,
The secrets are revealed to him,
It is who commands the living,
The dead - The dead.

you, wander through the fields, your, sorrow, as I advocate the
depression, stumble into the
hardened earth and become engulfed by the seeds of plague, the sky
submits to the colour
purple, descending from
above, the holy ghost, does their saviour seem holy? a black spectre is
sent downwards
instead, lowered downwards
into damned soil, peasants mourn their own plagued death, the shephard
[sic] of the unwanted
valley, turning black
and purple, his spirit blows down, dark waters streaming down a
precipice, among the sheep
mist arises slowly, the
land is burned by the beggars, Ornans - a place of fear and disease,
Burial - no requiem
shall take place, eclipse of
the sky as impurity casts, no requiem, no return, peasants mourn their
own plagued death

standing upon the portal where my eyes have become weary, the cold winds
from
the south bring ghastly fragments of the forgotten land, where, once,
the spirits stood
along the desolate shore to
disappear into the silenced murk, "some by the seven gated Thebes in the
land of Kadmos
There, for these, the end of
death was misted about them", as my eyes slowly descend, the dust
transcends into my frail
structure, the wind, the
cold wind breaks my complete silence, the portal for which I stand upon
collapses, no fear I
shall feel, transcendence
into the peripheral, "and there they have their dwelling place and
hearts free of sorrow, in
the islands of the blessed,
by the deep swirling stream of the ocean", the hypnotised sound of
Boetian harps, created by
the force of the spirits,
the faraway lands no longer seem so distant, nirvanaesque serenity as
the hills become
unclouded, the spirits
embrace my soul, as I envision the neutral spectrum before me, the harp
echoes and echoes
and..... my wings take
me to the bewilderment

All is calm, all is quiescent-the colour magenta,
The afternoon breeze finds its way to my soul,
AsI sit there and enhance the tranquillity,
The solace of sensory magic, Irreplaceable nirvana,
My body feels the effect of blood-letting,
The winds brought in from the south coast replace
Such drainful inhabitance,
My eyelids voluntarily close as the blue horizon line takes shape,
Stretching out far beyond the sun,
The sound of the blue, an eternity of complete aquiescence,
I cannot move, nor do I need to, for it is enough to lie on the cliff
And become entrapped in a world of escapism and peace,
Cerulean transience of all my imagined shores,
A bird of the ocean perches before me
And lets out a shriek which transcends me back,
Back to where I write,
And the calm breeze continues to enter my peripherial