Martyr Art

Song Martyr Art
Artist The Agonist
Album Carnival Of Sound Sampler

Lyrics

Awaken, as from a tormented sleep with eyes anxiously looking to creep beyond this twisted dementia displayed on the walls.
Mysterious mindsets and ink-droplets fall.
Muses take flight in an all out war.
Shall I catch it with open hand?
Or let it fall and start again?
Such words burn the skin.
So, enter stage right, mic in hand.
Before the micro-cosm, stand.
Display my efforts, after all, don't expect them recognized.
Hourly torture, chaos ignite!
Beauty and art give a sign of life.
But, as Balzac and
Hardy profess, the martyr will burn for her canvas.
Elusive horizon,
I'm not a threat.
You see, I'm for some reason always on trial.
Object of destination -- always on trial.
O, Solitude!
With thee
I dwell! With thee
I dwell is our assiduous, gated hell.
Trivial -- this mind and spirit world.
You can't compare their worth to what is real.
At its best, all critics must confess, this work can outlive death -- so what is real?
Because I can't describe half the shit
I feel inside your crimes.
Targeted intent eviscerating innocence.
I swear I'm not a threat.
Put down your defense.
All I can do is watch in awe... feet raking the sand, hands bound by molten ire.
As the broad guillotine blade sinks into the horizon, streams of burning gold burst forth from ultramarine expansive veins and reach towards me, lending heat to the air, as the
Earth is sliced in half and the dividing line approaches.
For every stage turned wonderland, for every sound turned song, for every song turned experience, for every hour turned long.
Accablées de misère en décembre, les muses se baignent en flammes.
Noyées dans l'ombre elles disparaissent, attendant le divin pientre de l'
Univers, le
Soliel [English translation:]
Overpowered by misery in
December, the
Muses bathe in flames.
Drowned in the shade they disappear, awaiting the divine painter of the
Universe, the
Sun

Pinyin

Awaken, as from a tormented sleep with eyes anxiously looking to creep beyond this twisted dementia displayed on the walls.
Mysterious mindsets and inkdroplets fall.
Muses take flight in an all out war.
Shall I catch it with open hand?
Or let it fall and start again?
Such words burn the skin.
So, enter stage right, mic in hand.
Before the microcosm, stand.
Display my efforts, after all, don' t expect them recognized.
Hourly torture, chaos ignite!
Beauty and art give a sign of life.
But, as Balzac and
Hardy profess, the martyr will burn for her canvas.
Elusive horizon,
I' m not a threat.
You see, I' m for some reason always on trial.
Object of destination always on trial.
O, Solitude!
With thee
I dwell! With thee
I dwell is our assiduous, gated hell.
Trivial this mind and spirit world.
You can' t compare their worth to what is real.
At its best, all critics must confess, this work can outlive death so what is real?
Because I can' t describe half the shit
I feel inside your crimes.
Targeted intent eviscerating innocence.
I swear I' m not a threat.
Put down your defense.
All I can do is watch in awe... feet raking the sand, hands bound by molten ire.
As the broad guillotine blade sinks into the horizon, streams of burning gold burst forth from ultramarine expansive veins and reach towards me, lending heat to the air, as the
Earth is sliced in half and the dividing line approaches.
For every stage turned wonderland, for every sound turned song, for every song turned experience, for every hour turned long.
Accabl es de mis re en d cembre, les muses se baignent en flammes.
Noy es dans l' ombre elles disparaissent, attendant le divin pientre de l'
Univers, le
Soliel English translation:
Overpowered by misery in
December, the
Muses bathe in flames.
Drowned in the shade they disappear, awaiting the divine painter of the
Universe, the
Sun