1. |
Ressonance
09:42
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O beijo amigo é véspera do escarro;
A mão que afaga é a mesma que apedreja;
Apedreja essa mão vil que te afaga;
Escarra nessa boca que te beija!
Whispers of perception
Perceived on high frequency turbulence
Trends depression
Exhausted within a glass of consequence.
Another drink of this poison
In homeopathic doses of illusion.
Prescribed for almost humans
Fixing this mind in deconstruction.
A thousand years of abuse at the hands
Listening sound waves radiating from your heart.
Every morning grief and pain
Emanating from you to all transmissions bands.
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2. |
Abyssal Sea
10:49
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I am lost at deep sea
Abyssal ghosts lies in here
I am lost at deep sea
A spiral down on me
Going under in the dark
Black sun spread over me
Going Under in the dark
Full filled by emptiness
Lost boundaries, moving flesh
To nothing and nowhere
Stains on the wall
Rotten bodies on me
Angst is the last real I call
I am lost at deep sea
Abyssal ghosts lies in here
I am lost at deep sea
A spiral down on me
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3. |
Silence
04:57
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Silence of laments
Joining fragments
In bloody cuts
That the cold blade, it will open.
Silence in pain
Withering the flower
Rooting the grudge
Devouring illusions, mutilations
Silence in the death
Maybe! If it is lucky
The sickle will be certain
Tranquilizing the spirit, torment
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4. |
Limbo
08:20
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Remember the old landscapes?
Before these spectral walls.
When we could breathe light breeze;
A world far away of this dark hall.
Valleys with crystal water.
Only nature, earth mother.
Absence of pain in your eyes.
Hidden in the shadow of time.
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5. |
Remorso Póstumo
07:09
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Para que servem os anjos?
Se estamos mortos para o mundo.
Para que servem os anjos?
Se vivemos no escuro.
Já que estamos mortos mesmo;
Joguem terra em cima de mim;
Já que estamos mortos para o mundo;
Joguem terra em cima de mim.
Nunca haverá um deus que poderá nos alcançar;
Somos seres condenados;
E nossas almas não podem descansar.
Para que servem os anjos, agora?
Na palavra não dita;
Na lágrima que grita;
Na solidão do sepulcro.
Para que servem os anjos?
Se minh' alma fora arrancada;
Não sinto dor, não sinto raiva, já não sinto nada.
Já que estamos mortos mesmo;
Joguem terra em cima de mim;
Já que estamos mortos para o mundo;
Joguem terra em cima de mim.
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Songs of Oblivion Araraquara, Brazil
Inserted in a chaotic everyday seek the afflictions of the human soul, in his individualism, the poetic richness expressed in chords and rhythms now resonant and harmonious sometimes dissonant and desperate as the context in which our troubles arise.
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