1. |
Scripta Obscura
00:47
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- Breed of the Witch of Endor
Whirling spirit, lingering
there a moment more,
as winter breathes on glass;
impalpable and feeble
as the body wrecks.
Impossible to catch
and vanished among the tides
of atoms,
into thin air.
Lost not forever.
For widows will not cut their bond
and memories can rekindle
what has surrendered to Great Void.
Just a sparkle more.
When you'll be aware
of those sacred tongues that
Chaos has arranged
then be soon prepared to open the circle,
shredding the Veil with your words,
let in the dead to speak with the Dreadful
Voyager.
These are the night's abomina
things to be hidden from the face of
daylight,
a council with those who crossed the border.
What will you dare to know?
The token left to know the truth
how deep a hole it dug in you?
To inquire beyond what you could see
polluting your here and now.
A moment of loss, of pure disorder
the life that we live, an open mire.
The sense of it, overwhelming conscience
and the life that we live is an open mire.
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3. |
Ubiquus
04:25
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- Ubiquus
Panspychia! Matter's alive!
It's plain on pure observation
that there's harmony in the spheres
and on earth;
that a Will beyond our reach
has imposed it;
that we're but a tiny brush stroke
in the drawing.
There's no end,
no center,
ye slaves of the sun
embrace infinity.
I daresay, if He gifted this matter
with a spirit,
then all of the matter from faeces to
stone
is drenched in God.
That this matter has purpose and molds
itself,
and it carries a part
of God.
You're not alone,
a garden you host.
Death's just migration,
embrace infinity.
Per nostra diffinitiva sententia
pronuntiamus te pertinax et hereticus.
Te degradamus et eiciamus
extra Ecclesiam, cuius indignus es.
Te tradimus ad sententiam sancta
et opera tua ad flammas damnamus.
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4. |
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- Averting Death to Eternity
We're giving account of
a fact that we sure disdain,
involving a certain Clydesdale,
murderer of Aire;
of how he was dropped from his neck
then carted fresh dead
to the theater
to rise back again.
Current sprang
and body twitched for the
horror of those attending.
Grimaces and despair,
all these mimics of life could he
perform,
then he was restored to death.
Yet he is said to have
hovered his hand
towards the audience
as warning
and those that were there
were appalled
till the anatomist slit his
throat for good.
The precious fiber that we were
will soon unfurl,
we can't weave it one more time.
The living sparkle, once dispersed,
will join the flood;
it's out of our hold.
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5. |
Those Masters I Hear
03:24
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- Those Masters I hear
The mind is idle and
knowledge void,
barely filling the pores of paper.
Logic can't offer colors
but fleeting shades
for the pursuer of it to find.
In the revolving mass
beyond the dark,
at the foundations of
perception,
tangled voices in constant chat
hide at the edge of self-dissipation.
And if you feed them
with proper heart
and stream of thought in hallucination,
they'll forcibly open your Eye,
the Third and True,
epekeina tes ousias.
Ton arcaion hemin theourgon,
Theosophia.
Those Masters speak
and these hands write down,
unveiling Isis in her splendor,
showing the brave ones who seek
The Golden Bough
the underlying real dimension.
Ton arcaion hemin theourgon,
Theosophia.
Ton arcaion hemin theourgon,
ego, Isis, phainomai.
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6. |
The Harmonic Demise
04:05
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- Harmony of Underground Worlds
Splintered roots wink
on frozen soil, the trace of spoil.
Chopped wigs where heads fell.
Duly gallows rise,
the sun inclined o'er stains of men,
bruises that won't wane.
The shallow wells of their cupped hands
gleaning dark to soak their cries,
horror taints their eyes.
Blackened hearses (whose)
wheels sputter plague neath muddy skies,
sowing violent hearts.
The question is raised:
who's preaching unnoticed,
advocating proxima era?
The opus is done.
Enacting the Kingdom
whose light is a failure,
whose essence is lie.
Instauratio facienda ab imis fundamentis,
abyssus abyssum invocat.
Acts mold the hypostasis,
facts vanquish the promise.
The reign, it is faltering:
a stool and a rope.
Acts mold the brutal hypostasis.
Acts mold the hypostasis.
This is the disease and they
don't see it coming,
scattering their words,
their gurgles turn to rot.
Violence calls for violence,
heads on high poles will accuse,
eyes stuck opened wide.
The promise, it failed them
it failed them all
and they failed it too.
Symbiotic to their doom.
Blood spilled on manure-reichs,
it won't be a cure.
Nefesh which is wasted,
a tribute of souls.
The opus is done
and down falls the Kingdom,
nurturing the dead roots
the harmonic demise.
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7. |
A Surgeon's Legacy
04:30
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- A Surgeon's Legacy
Stressed flesh that heaves and
falls
at the tip of the knife...
such a natural repulsion,
as if it were allowed to sniff,
as if danger could speak
and carve it with licking.
A moment to hush her, to calm her,
then get back to it quick;
that which is due to her.
This is the moment hands shan't shake,
this is the heritage I own
and I've been good pupil.
Understand
this is no pleasure,
instead, a trial of faith.
It is cracking a chest,
the box protecting
the mechanism most sacred.
It is participating in the secret,
the prodigy of life;
the power to snuff it out.
Over the swirling fumes
of life itself, intoxicating.
Kill the beat of that heart,
ready for your Apokatastasis.
The knife has written verses on this skin,
omens that things change,
of the futility of opposing.
Each curve an acronym, the cradle of a word
on the verge of being
and I'm spokesman and witness.
Now scissors take over,
bayonets on a battlefield,
the flesh surrenders and it moans
like leather.
A work of art, ever changing;
cries are no more real than the
sorrow I'm feeling.
Blood spills, sputters, invigorating.
One more step of my journey
that I shall accomplish.
Over the swirling fumes
of life itself, intoxicating.
Kill the beat of that heart,
ready for your Apokatastasis.
Was I man when I acted as it?
Am I now more than appropriate,
savaging those not awake?
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8. |
Sidera Funeral
04:41
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- Sidera Funeral
I watch them dance
losing borders day by day.
They're crackles and hiss,
tweaks on a radio.
Muscles don't wake anymore
from their weird torpor
and every breath has the taste
of the last spurt of life.
And while everything seems blurred,
so much I can't decode it,
I get it what I'm feeling,
this burden.
It starts tonight,
I leave it all behind.
I bleed tonight
in this sidera funeral.
Time is like a living animal
and mine's been strangled by my own hands.
Or is it I can't stay for that,
this everlasting dance?
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9. |
The Gathering Bell
03:51
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- The Gathering Bell
Came after a silent journey,
expanded to fibers
into the reticulation
of purest nothing.
Here, which is nowhere,
imbibed with quiet
stiffness, synapses are cold.
My mandatory relief,
a strange suspension.
The shadow of a sound,
no more than that,
the blueprint of a memory
long dead,
it woke me up,
it woke up us all
forcing limbs sewn to the dark
irrevocably,
starving ghosts.
Exposed to the setting light,
eyes that bleed,
skinned dogs bark somewhere
unrequited,
crusted with living soil the soles
of bare feet,
flesh falls apart from us mongrel beings.
Yet we carry on,
pitiful bags of bones,
the echo of bells smears the nightly cold,
half-tone need that draws us.
In silence we secretly come back.
We stand amassed as a sea-beast,
arms to the skies
as tentacles, antennas longing for light.
The sound won't get nigh,
it won't call us home:
and there we are drowning
back to the senselessness of ourselves,
to the stiffness of the immutable,
the impulse will now stop
a whirlpool to nowhere.
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10. |
Apocrypha Illuminata
06:11
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- Apocrypha Illuminata
It is so dark where we go,
there's a chill that gnaws our bones
and we can't cope with the silence.
There's a place we're forsaken,
in the wait for a morning never coming.
Apocrypha Illuminata!
What built our lie is
the conviction of time.
This doubt corroding all our passing days.
Empty graves,
a number far greater still
than all the generations next and past.
Stranded as we feel we'll
ever be
and always have been since
the eve of times,
we turn to you,
to your sepulchre shut,
it's not for God but a man
we're looking for.
Apocrypha illuminata!
The promise stands, that every man
is more than this handful of sand.
That what we've learnt and been won't end.
Apocrypha Illuminata!
We'll close our eyes and firmly cling on
to the eternity that you preach
to feel there's sense in all of this.
Apocrypha Illuminata!
We're taught to fight
the experience of our eyes,
to back off incredulity and believe.
Those who compel
the gift of reason, then,
will spot some truth where others cannot find.
That's how you'll rise
in our collective mind,
but your broken body there is unresponsive.
Apocrypha Illuminata!
The promise stands, that every man
is more than this handful of sand.
That what we've learnt and been won't end.
Apocrypha Illuminata!
We'll close our eyes and firmly cling on
to the eternity that you preach
to feel there's sense in all of this.
Apocrypha Illuminata!
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Kalyot Łódź, Poland
Scrutator Ignotus - Vocals, Guitars, Bass, Drums, Trumpet and Synths.
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