NimphaioN все тексты (слова) песен, переводы, видео, клипы

Born in the mud of disfigured faith,
Nourished with superstitios fier and lies,
They were foredoomed to be a humble herd,
Which plods towards luring light of ancient rites.
Ffom birth and till death they spend lives in
Pathetic dressing which they as vurtue take,
In simulacrum of imaginary holyness
Covering with pathos of the ritual their futility.

The rage of thunderstorm will not disturb your sleep,
And lightnings’ flashes will not touch your eyes.
Desiring to taste forbidden pleasures’ sweet
You’re ready to give yourself up to other’s will
Bedazzled by lust you were delirious,
Resigning yourself to evil spirit’s genius.
Your carnal desires all became so real,
And your soul was tainted by the profanity.

Fire of redemption and steel of repentance,
Sanctified water will wash sinful blood.
Recognition which taken under the tortures
Plunges the victim’s soul into darkness.
Guilty of atrocity will surely be proved,
Torturer is skillful, intolerable pain is.
Terrifying tools in his ruthless hands
Will get recognition in submortem scream.

Ah, broken is the golden bowl! The spirit flown forever!
Let the bell toll! - a saintly soul floats on Stygian river;
And, Guy de Vere, hast thou no tear? – weep now or nevermore!
See! On yon drear and rigid bier low lies thy love, Lenore!

Come! Let the burial rite be read- the funeral song be sung!-
An anthem for the queenliest dead that ever died so young-

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
O'er a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore —
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door

Ah, distinctly I remember it’s in darkened bleak December;
And pythonic dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; — vainly I had sought to borrow

Lo! It is a gala night
Within the latter years!
An angel throng, bewinged, bedight
In veils, and drowned in tears,
Sit in a theatre, to see
A play of hopes and fears,
While the orchestra breathes roughly
The music of the spheres

Who entereth herein, a conqueror hath bin;
Who slayeth the dragon, the shield he shall win!

During the whole of a dull, dark, and soundless day in the autumn of the year, when the clouds hung oppressively low in the heavens, I had been passing alone, on horseback, through a singularly dreary tract of country; and at length found myself, as the shades of the evening drew on, within view of the melancholy House of Usher. I know not how it was — but, with the first glimpse of the building, a sense of insufferable gloom pervaded my spirit. I say insufferable; for the feeling was unrelieved by any of that half-pleasurable, because poetic, sentiment, with which the mind usually receives even the sternest natural images of the desolate or terrible. I looked upon the scene before me — upon the mere house, and the simple landscape features of the domain — upon the bleak walls — upon the vacant eye-like windows — upon a few rank sedges — and upon a few white trunks of decayed trees — with an utter depression of soul which I can compare to no earthly sensation more properly than to the after-dream of the reveller upon opium… What was it — I paused to think — what was it that so unnerved me in this terrible House of Usher?