Dying Echoes of a Past Forlorn

(Dark Hidden Prod., 2017)

01.  A Forgotten Stream
02.  Madrigalia
03.  Faded Laurels
04.  Forlorn
05.  The Masque of the Red Death
06.  Bells Tolling into Oblivion
07.  Haunting Decrepitude
08.  Buried Poetry
09.  Death and the Muse
10.  Lamentation

Total time: 55 min.
Grim and antique Neoclassical Black Metal.
All music and lyrics were written and performed by E.,
except for Lamentation, composed by Henry Purcell (1659-1695),
the Madrigalia's lead, by Georg Friedrich Händel (1685-1759),
the Haunting Decrepitude's intro, by François Couperin (1668-1733),
and the Death and the Muse's theme, by Marin Marais (1656-1728).
Drums and percussion are courtesy of Ares.

Available through Dark Hidden Prod.

Madrigalia

Spirits oppressed in doleful dreariness,
souls imprisoned in a sordid daily sham,
minds poisoned with vapid decadence,
broken wings trampled in the herd's fetid muddy tracks.

Winds arise in the night's blue horizon,
their nocturnal madrigals enchant the skies;
exhumed works of forgotten lore and art
cleanse the soul from the canker of mundane empty life.

Evoking long gone days of ancient times,
enthralled by the agonizing verse of yore,
obscure threnodies and majestic ayres,
dying echoes of an olden age forever lost.

Voices of time-buried poets haunt the ear,
words full of meaning shake the dormant mind,
the spirit roves through lost summits of dead art
searching the soul of the past for this world has none.

But the sun of present day rises once more,
rhyme slowly fades, noble values disappear,
the abhorred modern world holds the reins again:
the spell of the night-wind's choirs is sorely fled.

Forlorn

Silently and unnoticed the autumn crept in
while the hushed harp lay mouldering in the dust;
crumbling were the sere and faded laurel leaves;
the day was past and yet eyes never saw the sun.

The hoary bard remained unheeded and neglected;
he sung of chivalry, but old manners were long gone;
in an age when heroic memories were all forgotten,
a minstrel with noone to share his elegies and odes.

Withered harmonies kept visiting the old lute in vain
for beauty was hidden to the herds that forsook the gods;
merchants lured the sheep with new jesters' roundelays
and under that flippant dissonance soon his voice was lost.

Dead leaves whisper now to him of departed days,
a dirge assaults his ears like a death knell in every wave,
the forest breeze adopts to his soul a mournful strain,
all Nature sings for him the melody of hopeless fate.

He wanders through the uncertainty of the night,
muttering his stale lays to the freezing stars above;
but hearts dismay when all our future winding paths
lead to the same broken and barren world we know.

Unable to follow the shallow ways of modern times,
the minstrel slowly carries to the grave his unstrung lore;
forgotten by the kings, by the uncouth crowds despised,
in a twilight without dawn he sinks despondent and forlorn.

Haunting Decrepitude

As a soul wandering through vaults and broken arches,
pensive amid the dismal ruins of perennial solitude,
I behold the doleful wreckage of timeless sorrows
haunted by the senile ghosts of harsh decrepitude.

Years devoted to death in search of some resemblance,
of some relief in quiet tombs and ancient masterworks;
to the living world no more than a strange outsider,
a foreign soul from the bygone ages which are no more.

A spiritual idiomatic barrier segregates from mankind,
leading to the anguished chants of spectral requiems;
a kindred language is born from oblivion and darkness:
daily silence converses with the deep groans of the dead.

A grim harpsichord resounds through empty corridors;
thick cobwebs heap upon the decayed fruits of youth;
dust and bones are now the sole mirrors that reflect me
under the hard burden of this sullen suffocating gloom.

Days are just a shroud to mortal existence,
the world is a morbid corpse devoid of soul;
life is but a lonely fleeting shadow
in a cold eternity without a sun.

Death and the Muse

Death embraces innocence with wings unfolded,
fragility steps on walkways strewn with thorns,
an open casket to see where we are buried,
a graveyard to bid farewell to all future hopes.

When music is the cry of lonely voices
new elegies arise from each old wound;
a lute is tuned to wring tears from the Muses
when plangent scores are filled with drops of blood.

Estranged from the hollow masked ball of life,
fusing with the rueful choirs of the departed;
cloistered in the somber poetry of the night
whilst the bow slowly tears the heart apart.

Playing bereaved dirges to old shadows and the night,
dark alchemy that turns all mourning into art;
drawing inspiration from the ashes of the past,
a Promethean search for soul's remains inside.

Life, the absurd, the meaningless, the pointless,
why must all our paths so bleak and solitary wind?
Who will ever hear those metaphysical concerts?
When will the Muse of tragedy cease to weep?

Death, the harrowing, the tangible, the certain,
why art thou the sole presence haunting all my nights?
When shalt thy bare wings take away this burden?
Why didst thou conceal that the fallen one was I?