milton babbitt - philomel (pt. II) | Текст песни

• Тексты песен
• milton babbitt
• philomel (pt. II)

...not be stirred:
The Gods who made this hubbub erred!

Tape:
Bird, bird, bird!

Philomel:
You are bare of desire:
Be born
O green leaves! through your rustling lace
Ahead, I hear my own myth race.

Tape:
Thrace, Thrace, Thrace!

Philomel:
Pain is unchained,
There is change!
In the words of Thrace!

SECTION THREE

Philomel:
Living, growing, changing, being in the hum always,
Of pain! The pain of slow change blows in our faces
Like unfelt winds that the spinning world makes in its
turning:
Life and feeling whirl on, below the threshold of
burning.

I burn in change.
Far, far I flew
To this wailing place
And now I range
(with tape)
Thrashing, through
The woods of Thrace.

If pain brush against the rushing wings of frightened
change,
Then feeling distills to a burning drop, and
transformation
Becomes intolerable. I have been defiled and felt my
tongue
Torn out: but more pain reigns in these woods I range
among.

I ache in change,
Though once I grew
At a slower pace.
And now I range
(with tape)
Thrashing, through
The woods of Thrace.

Pressed into one fell moment, my ghastly
transformation
Died like a fading scream: the ravisher and the chased
Turned into one at last: the voice Tereus shattered
Becomes the tiny voices of night that the God has
scattered.

I die in change.
Pain tore in two
Love's secret face.
(with tape)
And now I range
Thrashing, through
The woods of Thrace

Love's most hidden tongue throbbed in the barbarous
daylight:
Then all became pain in one great scream of silence,
fading
Finally, as all the voices of feeling died in the west
And pain alone remained with remembering in my
breast.

I screamed in change.
Now all I can do
Is bewail that chase
(with tape)
For now I range
Thrashing, through
The woods of Thrace.

Pain in the breast and the mind, fused into music!
Change
Bruising hurt silence even further! Now, in this glade,
Suffering is redeemed in song. Feeling takes wing:
High, high above, beyond the forests of horror I sing!
I sing in change
Now my song will range
Till the morning dew
Dampens its face:
Now my song will range
As once it flew
Thrashing, through
The woods of Thrace.


milton babbitt еще тексты