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2. |
Nonsens II
11:00
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3. |
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Jak – i czym załatać czarną dziurę galaktyki mego serca?
I dotrzeć tam, gdzie najblaskawsze słońce nie przyciemnia smutku egzystencji wesołymi swymi promykami?
I miejscu temu posłać uśmiech nadziei, zrodzić mu nadzieję i dojrzeć mu nadzieję?
Ale czy mogę i czy chcę w ogóle?
Myśl o tam-podróży mnie przeraża, gdyż wpaść bym mógł w studnię z lwem na dnie, lwem, który pożera marzenia i wypluwa ból, ból, ból, męki, cierpienia, troski, trwogi, a ryk jego jak śpiew syreny – w skrzyni haniebnej zamyka na wieki.
Pochodnia ma zaś chwalebna, mimo woli zgasłaby pewnie i na pożarcie zostawiła, jak Rzym świętego Ignacego skazałaby.
I na wieczność tam tkwiłbym, w paszczy bestii, w studni Minotaura.
Już bez kropli nadziei i bez szczypty rozumu, osaczony kompletnie jak oblężone miasto.
Czyż więc nie lepiej jest dzisiaj? Czyż więc nie lepiej jest już dzisiaj? Czyż więc nie lepsza jest już teraźniejszość?
Tymczasem tańczę na strunie głosowej Barda Wszechświata – i gdy on zabawia swą pieśnią ubawną, ja przed gardłem jego rozpaczliwie się bronię.
Literą rozpaczy w sumienie mu celuję i jak robak z owocu mam nadzieję, że Bard mnie wypluje.
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4. |
Île du givre
08:50
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5. |
"Smiling"
02:27
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To be, or not to be, that is the question:
Whether 'tis Nobler in the mind to suffer
The Slings and Arrows of outrageous Fortune,
Or to take Arms against a Sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them: to die, to sleep
No more; and by a sleep, to say we end
The Heart-ache, and the thousand Natural shocks
That Flesh is heir to? 'Tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To die to sleep,
To sleep, perchance to Dream; Aye, there's the rub,
For in that sleep of death, what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause. There's the respect
That makes Calamity of so long life:
For who would bear the Whips and Scorns of time,
The Oppressor's wrong, the proud man's Contumely,
The pangs of disprized Love, the Law’s delay,
The insolence of Office, and the Spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his Quietus make
With a bare Bodkin? Who would Fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscovered Country, from whose bourn
No Traveller returns, Puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have,
Than fly to others that we know not of.
Thus Conscience does make Cowards of us all,
And thus the Native hue of Resolution
Is sicklied o'er, with the pale cast of Thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment,
With this regard their Currents turn awry,
And lose the name of Action. Soft you now,
The fair Ophelia? Nymph, in thy Orisons
Be all my sins remembered.
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I bind into myself today the strong name of The Trinity.
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Lost in a mirror like Sun In the night,
Beset with raids of my relentless pride,
I am my enemy, so how can I hide?
There’s no way to escape this hopeless cruel fight.
Before me stand the archangels of doom,
They sow incessantly the seeds of my gloom,
That spring up like shadows from fertile black soil,
Removing them is a tremendous toil.
My fate is the struggle within,
With foes so persistent, how shall I win?
I bury the grave every several hours,
Not sure if for me or those malevolent powers.
My fate’s a disharmony,
I know that I’ll lose, so maybe let it be?
Devoid of sanity like a beggar in need,
I can’t help following the silent voices, that lead.
How can I live with this great mental war?
There’s no slightest change to the times before.
I’m self-contradictory, my heart is still torn,
How can I withstand this tempestuous storm?
No God to relieve my vomits of pain,
No rain to clean out every sorrowful stain,
Death seems to me like a generous Messiah,
Who’ll save me from unfriendly swords and fire…
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9. |
Come the wintry mist...
11:24
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10. |
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Martwota Ostateczna Przemyśl, Poland
weird, experimental, incompetent, raw black metal or whatever from Poland
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