Wednesday, April 6, 2011

Lyrics - Vorspiel einer Philosophie der Zukunft

I apologize to anyone who has received a copy of Vorspiel(...) from me personally or offline without being able to read and understand the texts.

Essentially, texts are my meditations, written down, on what I find to be the six most significant and recurring ideas or perhaps, fixations of philosophy. These ideas being War, (or in a certain sense, struggle), Death, Truth, Solitude and the Self, (or in a certain sense, individuality), Time and Nature. The original goal was to offer a way of thinking, perhaps a new and different way, that I feel is absolutely essential for healthful survival in a modern world gone mad. My thoughts offered on each subject usually only examine one small, aesthetically interesting aspect of these subjects, yet hopefully act as a catalyst for further thought on the part of the listener.

Aside from this, or in addition to, the texts are a rather loose, fragmentary telling of a story. Following the near-universal concept of the fighter, the struggler, the knight, the rider, through the decidedly universal experience of struggle, eventual death and reflection, journey, destination and acceptance.

The vocalized sections of text are written in a more lyrical style, whereas the texts written for the instrumental tracks are written in a more poetic style, using a more antiquated vocabulary and structure.

So, belated though they are, here are the texts for Vorspiel einer Philosophie der Zukunft.

Der Ritter
(...of and concerning war)

beyond the farthest horizons of night;
there forth departs the rider.
where all left behind begins to fade -
It is a locked gate.

the gate stands silent, closed, waiting,
all of nature spread before it.
he who knows the end of pain
is now the master of Keys.

no hall sounds with laughter,
no breath is drawn for song,
no face shivers in the moonlight;
for the end of War.

eternity finds its ending,
in the cold of a dying sun.
songs of leaving press the air -
and open a hole in the sky.

no lake echoes with rain,
no mountain groans with ice,
no tree screams to the night;
at the end of War.

one is most alive when dying.

(...of and concerning death)

… And it happened that the rider clad of sable raiment in those moments immediately thereupon bethought and was ware of a great many things. As all around, spread far upon the laund whereupon had been made much warring and clamour of arms, now lay the dying and forgotten. Ever alone they are in personal torment, ever alone ere their death is given. As beneath the unfolding towers of day and night, enfolded to mud and worm, stream and leaf; the grave is also the birthgiver, the wakeful world the tomb.

Among the dead wend the maidens, clad in sable colours of mourning, making lamentations of much dolour. The cloaked ones went also their way, and bespoke the many orisons of their kind, yet they would not approach a great many of the fallen. Arose then the mists, and the reek of decay from the newly dead, set upon by crow and worm. For already was the transfiguration come and gone to those who had once drawn breath, now so unmade and relinquished.

Bethought the rider of the thence, now, and whence, of man’s attenement and nature’s artistry in this wise:

Upon the brief span of time whereupon day changeth to night and umbrous colours cloak the holts and slades below, ere the moon’s travels.

Upon mind’s paintures given to behold ere crossing the river of consciouness.

Upon the noblesse of mourns through trees that hold fast against wind.

Upon water’s turn of chance to purpose from fell to sea.

Upon the whispers and tumults through wealds bedight with snow.

…And upon all things whereupon doom is seemly passed… of finality, though to proudly endure whilst they may.

Such are things that truly hold beauty beyond the comprehension of man, and which provide keys to the world beyond time. Came then the rider as the master of keys, and assumed the transfiguration, in crossing the river of consciousness the last time.

Hold upon finality, embrace, forth of transfiguration, thereupon the wakeful world is changéd, and all is undiminished, elevated in cause of its end. For that is the gift given to men above all beasts, hight - the knowledge of finality, which doth enhance and garner the wakeful world.

Death is the gift that giveth the wakeful world chance of beauty.

Nichts und Schönheit
(...of and concerning truth)

Distant below, the silent fields
the spears are in the dead,
the light scalds the mist,
the crow picks the skull.

Always from the dead fields
flows the river of screaming,
flows through the forests of stars,
flows to the Well of Consciousness.

The old man beholds the peak
his complete life spent to attain,
his steps left behind the others,
his choice alone to journey further.

He spoke,
without sorrow,
without longing,
without pain,
without fear,

To the sky, his words sought truth
Understanding then happened
Truth was ever nothing,
is ever nothing.

Complete, the old man fell dead.

Much he beheld on his path
beheld valley
beheld forest
beheld lake
beheld night

Beauty will save us from truth.

(...of and concerning solitude and the self)

…And thereafter departure; went then the rider clad of sable raiment, to wander errantly over slade and fell, through stream and thorns. The night wealds and hithermoors, as yet bedight in memory. Crossed then the rider over many dales, each darker than the last, and anon chanced upon coppices of linden, oak and ash, boding of preception. Through the exceeding gloam therein fell lemes of half-light, and all was silent as of drawing breath. Presently the rider did lief enter upon the forest endless, and beheld then the weald of swevens. The bear returns. The wolf moans. The hart watches.

After long faring upon unwonted paths, anon came the rider upon a swath of wode over swale, wherein extant limbs, white from eld passing, appeared to the rider through the dark. Upon this untoward place fell nor wind nor light, and the air waxed empty and stale, weary of being held. Herein walked the unbroken line of whisperers, as wraiths of despair and mourning, to hitherward ends of sight. The mourners, nor witting of their despair, nor of other ways, nor of danger nor wanderlust; as they were, beyond everything.

Bethought the rider further of the thence, now, and whence, of man’s attenement and nature’s artistry in this wise:

Upon the singular sensation of the moon’s enlightement upon wanting flesh.

Upon the dissevering and malleation of stene into the fastness of man’s construct.

Upon the florets of the vernal term first yawning unto the light.

Upon the stillnesse of night atwain rend of lucence and clamour of stormful protest.

Upon the haze of dying breath as gathered upon release to winter gale.

…And upon all things whereupon doom is seemly passed… of finality, though to proudly endure whilst they may.

Such are things that provide keys, though are as beyond heed of the mourners. One must betake to enter the weald sauvage, by overgrown paths and be put to adventure; of danger, of night, of chaos. For to yon, who art beholden to chaos, are keys bestowed. Bethought then the rider upon others selfsame in wandering such paths, upon their fitness and withdrawal to wonder.

The rider, the self that thinks of the self, turns and mounts forth as master of keys and is assumed into the light. The most profound truths are understood when alone and remote.

Loneliness is a function of nobility.

Der Ring des Kosmos
(...of and concerning time)

with no fear of the journey.
Seek your way through
through the vale of sleep,
through the river of memory.

To the castle beyond time
fast in the realm of eternal.

How I hate the wakeful world.

Nothing has no beginning,
and nothing has no end.

How I hate the wakeful world.

speaks only in words of decay.
Leave the path of singularity,
see the distance with new sight,
see the end and beginning as one.

…and already is all consciousness made unaware
…and already is all feeling made indifferent
…and already is all life made dead
…and already is all light made dark

How I hate the wakeful world.

The ring of Power is now the ring of Time.
…and Time is the last enemy destroyed by the noble man.

(...of and concerning nature)

… And thereupon accedence, in fearless light, rewove then the rider with cosmic chaos - sang anew the lay of eternity. Bespoke finality; Know thou, ye world of evidence doth exist in causality of chaos. Chaos giveth the turn from soleness, begat the individual, and leads ye world of evidence to ruin, upon the end. And so the wheel turns.

Know thou, chaos is a function of nature. And nature as hindmost truth is nor near nor far nor beyond, rather it is the way of such things, completely without turn. What then is nature? Indifference.

The rider then remembered of remembering;
Remembered of the world less agéd, now triumphed over by time.
Remembered why we held our fear close in sunless hours.
Remembered why the grave looks north.
Remembered when we had no speech, only song.
Remembered when we asked the forest of ourselves.
Remembered why the tree-custom determines to rejoin the world with the sun, maugre witting of winter’s return.
Remembered of the wan-light, and the third way, the solar turn, beyond dark and light, atwain night and day. And upon such memory, wist then the rider of order in the cosmos, of dignity over the microcosm, reverence under the macrocosm. And so the wheel turns.

Bethought the rider finally of the thence, now, and whence, of man’s attenement and nature’s artistry in this wise:

Upon the revelry and wundor assumed to the self come ware at the self.

Upon all ceased and fatal remains upon mortal reply to fell and wold; made hale of such enhancement.

Upon trenchant blade thus sheathed upon beating heart.

Upon the fiaunce of wisdom upon turning of consciousness.

Upon the puissant moment the cosmos became ware.

…And upon all things whereupon doom is seemly passed… of finality, though to proudly endure whilst they may.

Such are things that exhibit meaning beyond statement. Forsooth, not begat of nature is man - contrariwise, man is nature. An only man wouldst turn to memory. That man is a function of nature, the vestige of the way- as crest to sea, as cion to holt, as stene to fell. What happened sith as blazons in the nightsky, now as waking world and rider, henceforth again as ground and firmament, so is the way of everything, and in such wise, nothing dies. And so it is not ye world of evidence that truly shifts, but the perception.

What then is the philosophy of the future?
To see destination become journey and journey become destination.