Nuwisha - Sowing Alder Seeds in the Midnight Tumult | Текст песни

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• Sowing Alder Seeds in the Midnight Tumult

The wind blows warm and fierce,
shrieking through the towers,
hollow steel cadavers
of monolithic hubris.

Skeletons of rusted waste,
tremble in the meadow,
shaken by the callous voices
of the raging dead.

The clouds speed by, pulsing,
the heartbeat of the Moon,
the Eye of Heaven looks down
upon the restless dead.

Everywhere we walk
lie the corpses of the fallen,
splintered, sodden ruin
of the forests former glory.

Lifeless, silver sinews
of exposed mycelium
lay bare and barren bleeding
like disembodied veins.

We ascend the moonlit path
to find the grove despoiled,
a boiling caldera
of pain, and death, and silence.

In that howling void,
we listen to the sadness
of splendor now forsaken,
a chorus of Despair.

The lonely few survivors
sway in desolation,
groaning tales of battles lost
and wisdom kept in vain.

The witching hour draws near,
a midnight bright as dawn
illuminates the legions,
vestiges of greater days.

Within that eerie conclave,
watched by wooden eyes,
eyes that cannot see,
we toil for the dead.

Our hearts are open wide
with empathy and rage,
we invoke the rites of vengeance
and call the Four Winds.

We skin the fallen doe
to make a ghastly totem,
a disemboweled warning
of excrement and heart's blood.

Sowing alder seeds
in the midnight tumult,
catkins scattered forth
glow with subtle Life.

The wind subsides
as the Moon retires,
the magic of the evening
fades without a sound.

We walk in silence, drained,
taking solace in the dark,
and listen to the wisdom
of the groaning few survivors.

The wind blows warm and fierce,
shrieking through the towers,
hollow steel cadavers
of monolithic hubris.

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