On the territory of the old destroyed pagan temples, in the heathen fane (nevertheless, not totally turned into dust by time and man), one can feel the presence of an ancient immortal spirit, whose name is unknown, and it does not matter, because HE is the original essence of all creations and deaths. He is what existed before the monotheistic religions and beliefs emerged. HE is the primary source calling back to the lost roots of spirituality! The mystical atmosphere gives rise to a string of atemporalvisions permeated with drama and sorrow over the loss of the former magnificent power. This work, to some extent, is a ritual of invocation and evocation, is an attempt to call out to and invoke the forgotten Absolute!!!
…Ever-being, the reaper’s exact, feeding soil with prey of the snare…
The mission of the 4th album "Black Crown of Poetry"is to show the world the legacy of the forgotten and partly "lost" Russian culture. We are trying to revive interest in the greatness of Russian Classics in music and painting. This video presents the works of the contemporary Russian artist "Vladimir Pingachev", as well as poetry of "Jadviga Rosenpaulis".
Amid wreck
On abraded Earth-tablets – so lean –
The primordial word’s dead as gore.
Mephistopheles' profile, not yours –
Snoops around from stellar side-scenes.
From deep silence comes doleful whinge
Of black-toothed darkness’ jaws.
In a malachite slumber of lily-gauze
Raspy plover not jeers but quakes,
Wolf is gnawing at a stale Easter cake,
Solar opal is shedding its bloom
Trod is clanking with crickets in gloom,
Like a desperate mirk shackle-tract.
Flower pollen is scattered and blacked,
It is dancing above mermaid stretch;
The grass snakes, curling noose-like, a klatch,
They enwrap wreathing gloom, they coact.
Ever-being, the reaper’s exact,
Feeding soil with prey of the snare.
Amid wreck, what I’d do?! Only stare?!
Under guard of mute shades I prepare
To be endlessly ‘it’ in the ghost-tag,
Drink the moon-water foil by crag,
Grow stiff and obtect, empty-bare,
Cinerarium wall be my lair,
Olibanum sigh tarring the sky.
Flower pollen is scattered and blacked,
It is dancing above mermaid stretch;
The grass snakes, curling noose-like, a klatch,
They enwrap wreathing gloom, they coact.
Ever-being, the reaper’s exact,
Feeding soil with prey of the snare.
Amid wreck...
Over cowberry glades’ fire-dye
Visions rise like a thorn in my flesh...
Nuptial rice turned to koliva mash,
Christmas carols and mourn-feasts flyby;
Gates of heaven have burst into cry.
Deaf and dumb is my spirit. I swear.
credits
released December 11, 2020
TEXT:
On the territory of the old destroyed pagan temples, in the heathen fane (nevertheless, not totally turned into dust by time and man), one can feel the presence of an ancient immortal spirit, whose name is unknown, and it does not matter, because HE is the original essence of all creations and deaths. He is what existed before the monotheistic religions and beliefs emerged. HE is the primary source calling back to the lost roots of spirituality! The mystical atmosphere gives rise to a string of atemporalvisions permeated with drama and sorrow over the loss of the former magnificent power. This work, to some extent, is a ritual of invocation and evocation, is an attempt to call out to and invoke the forgotten Absolute!!!
…Ever-being, the reaper’s exact, feeding soil with prey of the snare…
The mission of the 4th album "Black Crown of Poetry"is to show the world the legacy of the forgotten and partly "lost" Russian culture. We are trying to revive interest in the greatness of Russian Classics in music and painting. This video presents the works of the contemporary Russian artist "Vladimir Pingachev", as well as poetry of "Jadviga Rosenpaulis".
Amid wreck
On abraded Earth-tablets – so lean –
The primordial word’s dead as gore.
Mephistopheles' profile, not yours –
Snoops around from stellar side-scenes.
From deep silence comes doleful whinge
Of black-toothed darkness’ jaws.
In a malachite slumber of lily-gauze
Raspy plover not jeers but quakes,
Wolf is gnawing at a stale Easter cake,
Solar opal is shedding its bloom
Trod is clanking with crickets in gloom,
Like a desperate mirk shackle-tract.
Flower pollen is scattered and blacked,
It is dancing above mermaid stretch;
The grass snakes, curling noose-like, a klatch,
They enwrap wreathing gloom, they coact.
Ever-being, the reaper’s exact,
Feeding soil with prey of the snare.
Amid wreck, what I’d do?! Only stare?!
Under guard of mute shades I prepare
To be endlessly ‘it’ in the ghost-tag,
Drink the moon-water foil by crag,
Grow stiff and obtect, empty-bare,
Cinerarium wall be my lair,
Olibanum sigh tarring the sky.
Flower pollen is scattered and blacked,
It is dancing above mermaid stretch;
The grass snakes, curling noose-like, a klatch,
They enwrap wreathing gloom, they coact.
Ever-being, the reaper’s exact,
Feeding soil with prey of the snare.
Amid wreck...
Over cowberry glades’ fire-dye
Visions rise like a thorn in my flesh...
Nuptial rice turned to koliva mash,
Christmas carols and mourn-feasts flyby;
Gates of heaven have burst into cry.
Deaf and dumb is my spirit. I swear.
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