Aes Dana
			Chroniques du Crépuscule (demo)

1. Agonie d'une aube ancienne

Iridescent streams were throwing
forked lighting through the sky,
As soon as mine wanders on the cold fluid
led me through the spheres and infinite worlds,
Images obscured in the nebulous horizon.

For a long time now the dawn,
disappeared beyond some unknown mass,
didn't more invigorate the last souls.
Images obscure in the nebulous horizon,
Glimmers of a completed time, forever lost.
All was chaos in this succession of limbs,
Dark Theatre of my last joumey.
"Il y a longtemps que l'aube,
disparue derrière quelque masse sombre,
ne réchauffe plus les âmes perdues.
Je distingais les ombres projetées du néant,
se mouvant sur les berges délabrées,
s'immisçant dans les eaux profondes,
écoutant leur silence porté par la plainte du vent.
I discemed the shadows cast from naught,
stirring on the shattered embankments,
meddling in the deep waters,
listening to their silence
brought by the wail of the wind.


2. Naissance de la plainte


3. Visions étérées I

This night, life is hanging heavily in me,
as an oppressing burden,
Repugnant by her irony of intoxicating happiness,
Irritating by her provoking cynicism,
As she attempts to atone
for the little strength that remains to me,
The last hopes, the last ethereal visions,
The past times and those to come,
Those who have never been and shall not be,
Those who haunt me night and day,
Those who try to reach but always elude
in a blurred évanescence,
As the water we would like to seize, he glides,
Vanishes in a sheaf of a harassing ridicule.
The dread is his most favourite mean,
The anguish a terrible use,
The despair his most devoted companion
In the darkness where he likes to initiate me painfully,
Where the dreams vanish slowly,
And where the infinity of the naught comes to me,
I feel it so close to me,
It kisses me like a loving curse mistress
And its breath of chrysanthemums exhales me
The sweet fragrance of a unique j ourney...
Without retum.


4. Visions étérées II

A winding path in a quiet and cold storm.
It ascents higher and higher to an abyssal summit,
Abrupt ravines where sink the grounded souls,
The spirits tortured by the fire, the blood, the desire,
The dishannonic and intoxicating music of the impious cries,
The chorus of a dark etemal church,
The love which dies in a nauseous rale,
Vomiting her last sweetness in a melodic and proud crescendo,
Led through the transparent and fantastic colours,

The priest hears his last prayer
under the broken vault of this stonework which vibrates into
What it Is Not And Will Soon No More BE,
Insufflating him its dying fluid
which curdles under the rhythm of the requiem.
The piercing screams are at the apogee,
The fusion of the universe implodes under the pressure of the tears,
The howls are near,
I feel her breath beneath the trees,
And let me lay on the damp grey grass,
Her perfume is sinking into and I indulge.


5. Gwaenardel


6. Le seigneur des âmes en peine

In a dream he cherished illusions,
Gloomy premonitions of a funeral storm,
His hatred sticked without respite,
Filled by the suffering, the screams and the shocks
Of these lower creatures who sleep without dreaming.
As this far and diaphanous star flood the landscape with its misty light,
I see the frightened souls wandering through the swamps,
Sports of a funeral lord.
The sharp flicks of the hoofs blend with the long screams of agony,
With the eternal lamentations of the blind Morpheus,
Captive of an invisible dungeon from which he was formally the master.
The flutes measure of this grim hunt,
That no blood will soil,
A requiem of a dreamed dance.
Any salvation will come to clear the profane wound,
And its essence will bear the sign forever,
Invisible but primordial at the eyes of the Last,
King of the suffering souls,
THE KING, ON THE THRONE OF SORROW.