Testo di 'Godether' di Mourning Beloveth

It may have seemed a sign of hope
That we are surrounded by humanity
But they are merely there
To pick our bones malignant

Growing on the mind like mould
A mere sliver of light drifting
Between wars and plagues
But there is no sound of violence
No famine of the mind

Nothing happens, nobody comes, nobody goes
Trying to crawl back through creation
Just plugged in expecting to peak

Nothing happens, nobody comes, nobody goes
Seed aching to perfect itself
Anchored by coffins and the slums of the subconscious

Nothing happens, nobody comes, nobody goes
Where we boil our own cancers
Torn from the caul, the curds of gestation

Nothing happens, nobody comes, nobody goes
It’s in the gut in the soil of the land
The dreams in the stars of blood and terror

Nothing happens, nobody comes, nobody goes
A whore Moon probed to life by groping entropy
Presumed to be the gods just aching for existence

Nothing happens, nobody comes, nobody goes
Nothing left but corruption a place in the sky?
Alongside the artifacts of some played out civilization

Phosphine dreams, space dust in tune
Drifting through stars the purest of light
Elements of the age, the red gout of light
No famine of the mind

Blood blown moons without life
Suns and molten planets
Outside the mind

Precession of equinoxes
A world created on a lie
Three kings follow a star
The only gout of light?

The ancient dream stars and earth collide
No famine, no famine of the mind

The insufferable stretch of time
Down the gullied abattoirs of the mind
The old world, a Bethlehem in the sky
Dead roots, dead time

Corruption seeps into the light
The ancient dream through the red gout of light
The ancient dream a palace in the sky

A cold spiral of systems created to destroy
A dense mass of consciousness created without life
Held together by dust worms and the dead time
Through a mere sliver of light

The Sun a mockery in the sky
Forming galaxies, the all-consuming life
The ancient dream destruction of mankind

An epoch of time cutting
A red line through the rusted sky

At war with the microcosm
Reality is just the consensus
Attending its ancient agenda

For our culture tricks us into accepting it
As consciousness just beyond some periphery
But now they are coming, they could smell the blood
Elements personified to nothing