Perfect Future все тексты (слова) песен, переводы, видео, клипы

When the echoes of the gunshots finally faded into nothing, the capitals couldn't stand the silence. Kaiser, Caesar, King, Democratic leader: at heart they're all the same. That silent night, that holy night, that started in the trenches, born from the margins, ended swiftly with the decree: "No prisoners or mercy!" That silent night, that holy night, offered relief from a society that's been complacent since the farmer Cain immortalized his name. "...Of the people? ...By the people? ...For the people?" Such an old game: let the poorest and most patriotic slaughter each other for the fame of a leader that's unashamed.

Moloch the created. Moloch the norm. Moloch the god that devours those it can’t conform. Moloch the corporatocracy. Moloch the military industrial complex that masks its motives in benevolence. There’s a new duality of man in existence (you can even lie to yourself ‘til you believe it): mankind can create miserable conditions and pass it off as charity with persuasion. The comedy of errors has not died. Legends live. A loss of pride fails to balm the aches of past crimes. Even when sanctioned white collar war crimes are brought to light, the common thugs are sacrificed. No justice for war crimes and ordering torture. Babylon immortal empire. Babylon the aggressor. Babylon lives on through us, yet is judged to be found wanting.

Behold! There is no discernible difference between the street lamps and the stars. Behold! In truth, I have forgotten whether the aging lights or the humming of the generators came first. Concrete, the great equalizer, covers the Earth, forcing each hill into the ground. Skyscrapers are proof that we exist. Is this our history? Cities built to decay and be cracked by tree roots? One day, I pray, the moss will eat away at all the highways.

In the morning, we found that the half decayed bodies of friends and comrades were calling out to us: "Bury the dead." Emerging from our muddy, makeshift homes we let guns rest while we put shovels to the test. We buried bodies ten feet deep to make sure they were put to rest.
In the morning, the stiff bodies surrounded us. "We must bury the dead". That's how I met him, your husband. He was the first to lay down his weapon and use a bayonet to dig a grave for an Englishman. They said "Dead is dead in the end, why should we care which way their rifle's pointed?", because back home, his family, his lover, and his friends would have wanted this. Together while the others said "He must have laid a dozen to rest." The onlookers emerged one by one, those without shovels took their helmets and dug. The infantry worked on past the setting sun.

After spending ten months in a stand still, not even the fraying patch of the flag could reignite a passion for a "greater good" that I couldn't see. After spending ten months in the infernos seventh circle...there's no escaping disillusion. This war to end all wars, divine tragedy, is never ending. This ain't our father's kind of combat.

Look at my hands. They're calloused, scarred, and normal. Would you imagine them capable of deciding whether a family sees their father again? I once created a life, and now I bring it unto an end. It's hard to believe just how things have changed. It seems like yesterday, I spent Christmas Eve away at my Grandfather's house... he took me caroling (even though I said I was too old). We gave all we had to the salvation army. But I'm no longer that child. My commands are simple, they read as follows: "Fire at each silhouette." I killed so I could live. It's hard to believe just how things have changed. Where's the honor on the front lines, while I spray them down with machine gun fire? It seems to me, the outcome is decided by technology. It's hard to believe just how things have changed. Hiding in trenches, I sit and wait. No heroics, no glory, no valor. Science now dictates the shift in power.

Every time I flip the hourglass, I receive perspective. I can add it up in piles of sand. How did I ever ignore such imperfections? After the smoke cleared, only the governments gained. Empires and emperors have never felt shrapnel, their relatives weren't casualties. After the cities are razed (and the names are stripped from those buried beneath rubble), they speak in abstracts about "acceptable losses." And this is nothing new. If only I would have known, I would have tried to change the world-how it works.

With a pen held tight in the palm of my hand, I let ink spill like spit, in hopes of some sort of genius accidentally spilling out.
But there are no words left in me.
With a pick held loosely I strum strings which produce notes I've already heard in hopes of stumbling across the chords that brush past hearts to produce thoughts.
But there are no chords left in me.
So let's manufacture inspiration!
It doesn't matter whether this is a routine.
As long as you know that if all I have is you then I have all I need.

We're all children of sixty elements created in a furnace coalesced with finesse. Our bodies and all we've ever known was forged of ancient exploded suns. We're made of the same cosmos that make up all flora and fauna. Consider the magnificence of every accident that had to have occurred simply in order for you to exist in this room making sense of these tones. On a biological scale, this is a miracle. And so here we are... cognizant of our actions and understanding in our impacts. And so here we are... with profound responsibility but still slaves to impulse. And so here we are... each a wonder unto ourselves but too lonely to get out of bed. It doesn't have to get better. Nature's chaotic and regarding Earth quite ambivalent. It doesn't have to get better if were apathetic of existence. It doesn't always get better, which should make sense cause sometimes it can't get better than this. It doesn't always get better cause this is as good as it gets.

I needed to explain out my thoughts
Before I could write out what I've meant to say from the start
Here it is, stripped of meter and unobscured by metaphor

In 1914, when the Christmas lights burned brighter than the stars
The carols echoed from the trenches
We forgot about the war
In "no man's land," he showed me a picture of you, his wife

The old forms have failed. The promises weren't real. Our connections never clicked. ’m still here screaming at a wall. What’s left to say? My heroes said it better in past days. So muse, grant me strength ‘cause Moloch knows my disdain. My identity relies on the belief that art can reach something that cannot be seen and affect the changes for which we've been waiting. The old has been made new and since then rejected but that doesn't dilute the purity of the motives. Let it be melancholy. How can we be happy as we’re victimized? Let it be filled with longing. It’s staggering the amount we've been denied. Let it be angry and revolutionary because we’re giving pennies or all that we sacrifice; it’s insulting. We have been crushed in a vacuum of corporate pop art designed for profits. I can’t keep quiet as beauty is ravaged and commodified as mere entertainment while Moloch robs us of our best years. Art isn't just an outlet. It’s an expression of emotional and physical loss while Moloch robs us of our best years.

The old forms have failed and proven themselves predisposed to fail. Existence is ravaged through possession of the tangible and ethereal. We've created a beast: both a god and devil. Unto it, we commend our spirits as we sacrifice ourselves. Our Savior named Moloch! Our Creation named Moloch! Our Empire named Moloch! Our Lucifer named Moloch!