Amazing album. I got it today. I typed up the lyrics, here they are.
Enemies of the khanate strung on hooks like pigs to slaughter.
Head will roll and throats will be slit and blood will flow like springs of water - to the rivers red, across the ochre steppe.
A thousand fathers killed, a thousand virgin daughters spread with swords still wet with the blood of their dead.
Nurjan is upon us, he kills in silence after prayers.
Ghengis Khan is upon us and he slays his betrayers.
Thus now the fools of god will guard the city of our birth, hold an ear to the ground to hear the sound of clamoring, and horses stammering as their gallop meets the earth.
Tomorrow they will find us, hide the children free of sin.
We will meet their blades by morning protected only by our skin.
Tomorrow we will find them, seek the youngest of their kin.
We will meet them with our fury.
We will crush them all like vermin.
Down the street half a block away, in a familiar place regular people agree with each other in smoke signals.
Brought together to burn the thing that brings them together, each in turn interprets the law as aging with its eyesight failing.
Sitting across tables spending nights talking about other nights, our eyes unclose like books we’ve read twice.
On Shelves lined with spines, the dust collects as scattered ash from an urn unturned, spilling over with somebody regular.
And other such regulars cry ghost and boast of the friend of a friend who saw a strange sight, or heard a strange sound, who now whispers tall tales of murder most foul.
The scene hit’s the moon with a rise from the shelves, alive on the myths of ordinary people past: somebody’s little girl dreaming of the things she reads, or the monsters in her bed who hacked her into blood-meat.
Thus now he knelt before the ruins, cold of sweat and heat of flame, to vow the severed heads of those who brought the village to its shame.
Those who plundered, pillaged, pilfered lives would now accept the blame. He would find them all with a mighty vengeance paid for in their pain.
Shah - Jan, the king of kings, wore seven rings and sixty feathers plucked from sparrow’s wings.
Growing fat on the throne where he sat like a stone as a man who has known no hunger or shown no mercy in promises broke like a bone.
Dispersed about his people, rostam calls out for his equals in thirst to rise and cast curse, exact the worst revenge on enemies to hang from trees.
The royalty must die like common beggars and petty thieves.
Those who rule against us will murdered where they stand.
Let our arrows rain from the sky to drain the blood into the land.
If mortal stands before us, strike him down with sleight of hand.
And if heaven rides against us, god himself then must be damned.
Did you come here to kill or did you come here to die?
Did we really think that spaceships would descend from the sky, bending light and beaming forth across space-time to see us scared in the reflection of their oil black eyes?
And stalk us as a predator like our movies imply?
They’re not the ones who hate us, who create our common dread. They’re not the ones who mutilate our animals, or travel through the stars.
They’re not the ones to cause us harm - we are!
We are still-life in cold blood and we feel nothing, hell-bent on heaven while our righteous men are stuffing corpses full of shit and faith.
They bloviate about a future life and beat our war-drum to its tune.
Unless our prayers will be answered and our end is coming soon.
As often as always evolution is crawling from the sea, alive with urgency like suicide, convinced the grass is greener on dry earth; the march of serrated utterance like a soft cough muffled murmur sneaking through the lecture hall.
The crawl across the island, the sound of waves’ embodied water sprouting legs as loud as a gallop, cuffing down on ground against the cries of gravity.
All the young people who took a leap without faith into a riverbed that drowns about as much as it saves.
All the young cowards acting out for the brave forever hurled into the waters of their indifferent graves.
Belly-up, half buried in the sand, extend a hand to the smallness of death.
Understand that only dying is this colossal, creation shedding skin to find a perfect equilibrium like fossils.
For a million years, raise your glass in cheers - we will never answer where we came from only how we got her.
Limb From Limb
Split the sky asunder noble huntress of the clan - in your left hand raise the sword and in your right hand cast the spear.
Summon all the slaves and bastards hiding in the woodland -
crack their skulls into the cauldron for invading our frontiers -
the shadows fall, the hammer falls, the stone is placed above us all, forge our weapons in the furnace, soar to heights like oak trees tall -
Do not beg for me, I will not heed your appeals -
With your final words be grateful that you died by Irish steel -
Do not crawl before us for your fate has been revealed -
The heavens will not desecrate their gates with your admittance -
Son of flesh I cast you out into exile forever hence -
Flidais rides again, she is the forest and the rain, she is the huntress and the prey, she is the duck, she is the dawn, she is the moon, she is the sun, see her bellow out in anger, see her raise the infant fawn -
She is drawn by a cart of cervidae, she is here and she is gone.
Endowed with the art of casting names upon its being, the humans claimed dominion over every living thing.
Proud as a purpose they became to walk the earth as they arraigned the common creatures caught within the corpus, cursed, conscious human brain. Every word that’s ever written will fall short of its intent, even spoke or sung or screamed it will betray what it has meant.
Language is the heart’s lament, a weak attempt to circumvent the loneliness inherent in the search for permanence (like all the future ghosts who scratch their names in wet cement).
Demeaning meaning as they shout out at the emptiness, abstraction is the stake between the anima and animus.
Deflesh the word as scourge of human destiny.
Behold the world in other people, life is charity.
Chews the fat with his creator over breakfast in the sunlight through when he says grace, when he says grace, he feels enveloped like a shadow -
There are evenings when this decimated world of movement, colour, form, is thin and getting thinner -
When lights are dim and getting dimmer (when nights are grim and getting grimmer) -
As they barter their boulders and martyr their soldiers, teach a man to tear her fucking head from her shoulders -
Held into the sun by threads of her hair as they impart a secret hatred from their fathers to their heirs -
Suppressed and unaddressed the simple fact remains unspoken, in silence left unbroken, on a bed bound and gagged with culture, language, myth and law: our goddess gave birth to your god -
From a wounded womb where her flesh scarred and raw -
Our goddess gave birth to your god.
Take everything your parents taught you, throw it to the dogs.
It’s forgotten flesh of something dead it’s blood drips from your jaw.
Take everything your school has taught you, throw it to the dogs.
It’s meat that dries in the summer heat and reeks now of its rot,
It speaks now of the fate that we await, to be forgot.
Just as mountains live outside of rocks and time itself outside of clocks.
We hope that life exists beyond our lonely bones in the pine box.
From the bottom of my heart, at the top of my lungs anywhere, it’s anything, it’s anyone: the neighbour saving face by saving grace today for yesterday’s behaviour, bound to tethers, girls in leather unveil the true face of his saviour.
Live to fuck and fuck ‘til death, drink to sorrow and regrets.
Remember that which love begets irony that whose clasp their chests are lives as yet unfinished as they gasp their final breath.
What they must have heard in the distance: a wilderness of sound and movement repeating itself across the narrows of mountainsides, the cries of creatures crashing against cold rock, human voices heralding the hillside, their bellows bounding ripe with resonance, from here unimportant call received the all important answer.
Oh goddess who bore us what we must have done to have buried your daughters and prayed for a son.
The wind and the rain spoke a language of wonder to a species rising thickly to a dialogue with a thunder.
In empty place between better and worse language unravels and irony hurts.
In the common place between hunger and thirst, the words that define us a blessing and curse.
The words that confine the ideas traversed the ear to hear the song without verse, the sound of the sound of the sound utter first, the burst into nothing so sudden and soft, the silence inside you when the music has stopped.
After listening to The Mars Volta and Mastodon too much recently.. the drumming on this album seems really weak.
Yeah, I wasn't that impressed by the drumming. Brann Dailor blows me away though. So did Jon Theodore (I haven't listened to the new Mars Volta yet, I'm holding out! So I don't know about the new guy). The drumming on this album is good...just not very original. Listen to any metal band or death metal band and you can get guys just as fast and just as creative.
This album may not be revolutionary, but it is definatley a rebirth! The guitar work that is on this album is by no means ordinary. I personally think this album will not effect the masses, but for those who are musicians and up to date, this will bring in a new type of player for the 2000's.