|The Burial Tree|
|The Burial Tree|
|Author|| ?? Added by FlakyPorcupine
This is not written by me in any sort of way. These are the album lyrics of a sophmore release of an American band named Ana Kefr, the album titled "The Burial Tree" which was released in 2011. Many people wonder what my influences of my writing are, and these guys are one of the biggest ones. So I hope you'll enjoy as much as I did.
“There is no darkness in damnation. When all great truths begin as heresies, it is a vileness to believe. Let this our gospel's Inquisition be reborn and, in the throes of birth, enact its first rites of communion upon their flesh and blood.”
The first trumpet sounded. We are the Children of Perdition, basking in the glow of their churches burning.
“Beside 'truth' I've descried the chosen lie whereby your lives be death glorified, praising the hands that fasten tight upon your throats - and you choke.”
In this, our hour of judgment, humanity is violently redeemed. Thena' Shaitan! Ana Dajjal! Enta Shaitan - and every knee may bow except for mine.
The second trumpet sounded. “There is no light borne with salvation, the tragic fallacy's that we've perceived a death's the worthy price to forgive ourselves for simply being alive, a vicious lie. Cast the bastards to the pyre.
“I am Legion, who have been sent to dwell among the swine, hearts corrupt with diseases, minds clouded by the treacherous divine.”
The third angel sounded and there fell a great star from heaven, blazing as if it were a lamp, and its name was Wormwood.
“We are the Great Satan.”
“Dulcet bitterness it was, with shadows cast as pearls therefrom – the Burial Tree, the blessings of Illumination,” said the serpent to me. “For, if the worth of our autonomy’s the everlasting flame, it’s a pleasure to burn and to the ashes do we return. So let bleed the scourge, do this in remembrance of me,” his sullen tongue of coals whispering secrets to the hearth.
“The tree of wisdom bears the fruit of blasphemy, for if from ignorance hails bliss then with enlightenment comes the abyss and hopelessness,” so said the Ophidian One.
Bathos, my bodhi - this changes everything.
“In this immoral fable’s meaning: the forbiddance to seek the path of knowing, but instead obey, exalt and concede; censure the lust for liberation, prize submission, retreat.” The serpent recoiled in disgust and sensed the presence of the abattoir. “Fattened for their slaughter, they ask and now receive. What they’ve sown now they shall reap.”
Where the tree of knowledge stands is always Paradise.
“Hear me in my reprieval, mortal enemies of reason: embrace the way of your ishtishhad god if your lives are but a vale of sorrow. Hear me, deceivers – the Swastikrist’s your savior, your precious prophets all pedophiles, your afterlives populated by whores.” So spake the serpent unto me.
Let us commence as moths drawn to their blackenings, Thanatos in our origins, closing in; spiraling across the void, all hope smothered by nothingness. With no Hell above nor Heaven below, all are destined to burn. Petrified, the burden of mortality reminds us all that we are alive.
“They've fixed their eyes towards the sun, mesmerized, drawn in closer. I've seen so many satellites orbiting about their deaths, not their lives. We're drawing closer...closer...closer...”
All that we've loved, all that we've valued and aspired to will wither and die and, whether we've lived it or not, we will forfeit our lives. Existence is a downward flowing river in which we are fated to drown. Take my hand, and these words; understand that we will always be alone.
Cold in the grave there is my lifeless body from which life may grow. I am in them and they are in me. I become eternity...
In the House of Distorted MirrorsEdit
...and so begins regeneration, our essence as molted wings.
“Where there prevails the stench of affluenza, one finds delusion a contagion, and thereby any given society itself transforms into an ossuary for the infected; yet it’s not the structure itself, but the partakers escaping themselves while every second is one more step in the forward-marching cortege of experience.”
Programmed to believe that we remain imperfect, then sold a pack of lies - the modus operandi of charlatans and religion.
“You must not become possessed by your possessions. For centuries, humankind has sought in vain for itself, ever attentive outside its source, yet we will never discover one another in this house of distorted mirrors.”
Exhume my mind from debris, remove all but that which I need, send to the charnel house all that may cloud me - perfection is clarity and self-understanding.
I cast off my shell and, through the rigors of psychological metamorphosis, I will become what I am.
And the fourth trumpet sounded.
“Will we ever be free? Will we ever be free from the happiness of slaves?” sighed the serpent to me with heaving melancholy, holding the slender disk to the firelight, fingertips smoldering and ghastly. On one of its two painted faces, I saw the likeness of a human being. Turning this towards the earth, I espied the portrait of a wretched cage and, with the threads between his fingers, the disk began to spin. There from the illusion begins. “Through persistence of vision, reality is hidden.
“Behold the thaumatrope - witness its subtle means of control, its warning falls on the dead and the blind and the dumb.”
Will we ever be free from the apathy of slaves?
Bathos And The IconoclastEdit
Bathos and its dilettantes, bow down to the Iconoclast for it’s all been done before and I yearn to break the symmetry of you all.
“We but yen to suffocate in this box,” so they pride, stumbling towards the morgue, clutching their instruments. Worthless clichés are their lives, so why won’t they die?
Dive deep into the shallow grave dug by the hands of fools, but live not by their simplicities, their precepts nor their rules. Bathos and its dilettantes - mere copies of absolute horseshit.
The Zephirus CircusEdit
“There’s a prefabbed usurper in the big top, the state’s an asylum for the demented and damned. Swing to and fro until the twine slips into a knot while the Tamer of Prophets is devoured.”
Is it for entertainment or have we simply been amused? Or are we all abused? “Ringleader, house speaker, witness the cabinet squeeze millions of citizens into a box.
“A puppet is a puppet,” so hinted the serpent, “Regardless of which fist is forced straight up its ass.”
And we’ve all already paid admission through our taxes.
“Stop breathing, stop eating, stop breeding, if you really want to save the world.” There is nothing more rare in the world than consistent men, and nothing so plentiful as lies.
“A warning on human naivete - the pig pretends that it was born outside the mud. The lamb will follow every step of the loving shepherd until, at last, it reaches the slaughterhouse.”
And the fifth trumpet sounded.
Scab-peel diatribe. Process of cellular suicide, the beauty of mourning in nature. Prevent the onset of atrophy, reach out and touch the earth with all five fingers.
Leaves, bones. Pitiful when the host opens wide to infection. Trees, petals. Weakness in the flesh, downward flowing, self-deception.
“There can be no true repose in a lie,” so wept the serpent, “for there are parasites in the tree of life. Yet I will never be pacified without knowing, therefore I reject their strain.”
So am I the host or am I the plague?
“But now it’s evolving, therefore I must purge their stain. They believe because they’re terrified to truly know. The empire of denial is burning as anomalies are cast below.”
So the parasite benefits most when it is sanctified and adored by its host. How I wish I were the hypocrite, that I could kill them all and be at peace with it.
“And when it’s claimed their tongues, they’ll speak of life as if salvation were their death and dying, as if their graves were opened arms.”
There yawns a chasm between transfiguring our mortality into a means towards life and twisting our destiny into demise as an end unto itself.
NAMBLA is the Catholic church’s official North American branch.
“They’ve immolated our children upon their altars of bloodshed and burning - Moloch and Tophet - for with the sounding of the trumpet comes the beast to raze the congregation, the promise of Wormwood. Let’s blast the sixth trumpet, and pour forth the plague of our judgment. Cast their pedophile’s messiah to the flames and slit the throat of each accomplice.” Jesus loves the little children of the world. Exit the corridor of blackness.
Paedophilanthrope, how blessed are the weak ones. Paedophilanthrope, they prey upon the children.
“Give them the persecution and death that they lust for.”
Nothing will wash away the stain, misanthroat.
“These sons and daughters of maggots and men, these wolves in priests’ clothing - if we don’t bury them they’ll do it again.”
Paedophilanthrope, how blessed are the children. Paedophilanthrope, preying upon their weakness.
“This violation will never stop until the last priest’s throat is cut.”
As a moth brushes a window with its wing.
Bent beneath the weight of this pain, in my dying thirst you offered me poison. Your words are but nails to my feet. Now I comprehend the curse of those chosen.
So I can not go on waiting.
“Eli, lama sabachthani?”
All it’s brought me is grief and aching. I’ve damned all you’ve loved for it’s tainted me, bastard.
“And what is sacrificed for love - procuring, pandering one’s son as a harlot? We are disparaged at the hands of the ‘good,’ yet, in our ends, we have inherited dirt. And what is the cost of love? Did Pygmalion surrender his own? I stand in defense of the prodigal son, eclipsed by horrors cast from the incandescent fire of his father.”
So I will not go on waiting.
“Eli, lama sabachthani?”
All it’s brought me is grief and aching. I damn all you are for you’ve broken me.
Nothing will wash away the stain, will stitch up the vacancy, will silence the anguish. There is no redemption nor forgiveness. After two years of winter, two years of trial and shame, I’m ready for the sun to rise again. I’m ready for the burning to begin. If your god is love, then love is fucking dead.
Is this how we end? Or is this how I begin?
Writhing somber in my dissociation. Cold comes the theophany, the sobering vantage point wherein my life transmutes into all life. And the hard fact is that we are all so small. So insignificant, as insects in one vast taxonomical display. And so it ends.
“Behold the bone orchards, the mortal remains of memory. The vanity of moss stones bearing eroded inscriptions, as taxa labels and their descriptions.”
As we are primed for burial, meticulous to give the semblance of life, we clip the tips of wings and let the scales of dust cascade. At last, we are dressed for our deaths, fit to be pinned in our final exhibition.
“This one was a soldier, caught in the killing jar mid-flight. This one was just a child, trapped before it developed wings. This one was caught while sleeping, but it will never be known. And this one was never even born.” And it’s no matter how great or small our lives are. We will all end in that box.
Death is the collector, our lives but a collection of leaves falling from The Burial Tree.