Cover di Todeswunsch - Sous le soleil de Saturne

Todeswunsch - Sous le soleil de Saturne
Album - 1995 - Debaser id 140443

By Sopor Aeternus & The Ensemble of Shadows

Thoughts are spinning their inescapable threads
transforming us cruelly into marionettes.
Everything I feel is pain
and the Devil holds us in his hands.
Buried desperately in my chest
a rose for myself and a rose for the dead.
A serenade of tears, lifelessly
we feel the beat, though no orchestra is there to be seen...
I am you, I am you - you are me,
what I am, what are you - who are we ?
What is truth and what is lie,
who are you and what am I?
In a cradle of mercy we are sleeping
the half-sleep of oblivion.
No holy water could wash away our faults
nor do benediction purify our unclean souls.
The gates remain locked
for the wingless children of wrath,
so long ago splintered and trodden down
us children of glass...
Please, my Lord, extinguish the light,
the illumination hurts my eyes.
My choice was wrong, so wrong:
truly everything is pain...
We are crying with wolves
like stone we are sleeping with the dead;
soon we'll be gone and you're left
the instrument...
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Two half figures stand ashore
the darkest lake embraced by cold
veils of mist and icy breath
blows the leaves away...
And the old black trees spread their long dead arms.
As the souls of the dead call across the water
they both step down into the coldest depth...
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Der kalte See liegt schweigend im Nebel
und ewig wird er sein.
Sie alle hat er bereits empfangen,
und auch ich tauche bald in seine Fluten ein.
Die Zeit, sie liegt schon weit zurìck,
als das Erste von uns sank in die Tief hier.
Die blauen Leiber einsam faulend,
nur ihre Stimmen rufen nach mir.
Dies ist mein Schicksal und mein Verlangen,
sein kaltes Grab ist mein Pflicht.
Ich bin ein Letztes meines Geschlechts,
und ich weiŸ er warted schon auf mich...
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Take my hand in the old 'Theatre Of Seven Hells',
a ferry that bowed its wings,
we call Her: 'Moon by Day'.
Life - a book of painful tongue that hurts our ears.
Flowers of the end, their seed shall grow.
Your breath shall be my coat,
the underworld is, oh, so cold.
The dead don't feel chill,
but please, hold me warm.
The aweful night has gone; what lay before...
we can't remember.
Even Morpheus has drowned in the lament
of his own weeping shadow...
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Carico...

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