Elend
Sunwar The Dead

Pack your bags, the journey continues. And accompanying us is Misery ('elend' in archaic German).

It is a sublime journey that we embark upon when listening to this work, the successor to the magnificent "Winds Devouring Men". With the first chapter of the "Cycle of Winds," the Franco-Austrian duo Hasnawi / Tschirner introduced us to a new musical dimension, quite different from the previous chapters on Lucifer. In this cycle, we find intelligent dark ambient, complex orchestrations and industrial influences, all handled with extreme care and mastery.

The succession of tracks molds multiple suggestions within us. We embark on yet another adventure with "Chaomphalos". A clear female voice emerges from the fog, indistinct and remote. One feels cradled in a fragile and ethereal crystal bubble, navigating a limbo of otherworldly quiet. The male voice enters, and a serenity tinged with melancholy seeps into the heart's fibers. But beware, the minimalisms at the track's end whisper and narrate of fear and worry.
The bubble shatters, myriad pointed needles pierce us. The frantic strings of "Ardour" hurl us to the ground, making us tremble. Gradually, the initial "violence" wanes, and the male voice becomes our guide, leading us to mysterious places, discovering new realities, surpassing the sirens' chorus.
Solemnity takes possession of the Being with "Sunwar The Dead", with the advancement of percussion and an insistent orchestration. Relentless, relentless is the flow of suggestions, scenarios and visions, hallucinations and impressions.

"Ares In Their Eyes" brings the dawn of a mysterious sun, and the rise of a filthy deity is heralded by shreds of unsettling industrial. One strike sends us crashing to the ground. Senseless, the soul nevertheless responds to the succession of blows. "The Hemlock Sea" welcomes us with "industrial" strikes, stunning us within. Hovering, we enter a suspended reality where nothing touches or harms us. A serene insensitivity. And the strikes resume, interspersed with a happy catatonic state.
Let's move on. On tiptoe, we peek into a changing fresco called "La Terre N 'Aime Pas Le Sang": the unease of the strings, the deafening silences, the terror around the corner, ready to cruelly bite us. A psychotic flute is the protagonist of the drama "A Song Of Ashes", surrounded by the extras of minimalist industrial. The male voice reveals itself, withdrawing from its dark hiding place and taking form: the form of a dark, anguished, suffering, and damned specter. The luminous twin finally embraces it in a slow and solemn dance. The psychotic flute and its vassal strings close the curtain, it is time to move on. Angelic choirs, voices from high thrones and the plea of a mortal yearning for celestial serenity. The ever-increasing progression of orchestrations, the sublimation of every weight. "Laceration" paints a soft and ecstatic carpet with small touches. But we cannot recline.

"Poliorketika" brings us to the shores of a mysterious land. A woman's voice creates sublime harmonies, fascinating us and beguiling us like a witch's potion. Awaken. Awaken from such slumber, fruit of enchantment. Can't you see? The skies are tinted with blood and gray. "Blood And Grey Skies Entwined". Slowly the grayness becomes darker and a tombal scent ascends. The harpsichord narrates death, the strings sing of blood, industrial suggestions cast malevolent glances.
Black. The sky has darkened. There is no sun, no breath of wind, no hope. Yet hope can still be found, strength is discovered. "Threnos" lifts us with evanescent wings above the black and the void, in search of a light. Maybe it is there, maybe it is what I can see in the distance. An illusion? The abyss embraces me once again, the black surrounds me with powerful tentacles. I descend slowly, with the darkness becoming increasingly real and tangible. I touch the bottom. And nothing is more, neither outside nor inside me.

I reopen my eyes. Yes, I have reached the end of this journey and have returned transfigured. I store the bags and await a new call. When I hear the wind whisper and Misery appears to me and gently beckons, I will be there, ready to set off anew by its side.