A chore for the lost Lyrics

Song	A chore for the lost
Artist	Deathspell Omega
Album	FAS - Ite, Maledicti, in ignem Aeternum
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	An exhausted fall into disgrace, famished for peace, for a mere moment
	of respite in dying eternities, on the verge of being deprived of all
	humanity: non-sense is the outcome of every possible sens, it is the start of
	transcendence, the dissolution that spreads without limits and the critical
	violation; what pleasure of inconceivable purity there is in being an object
	of abhorrence for the sole being to whom destiny links my life! The rupture
	is too profound to stand up, nothing remains but a terrified consolation in
	a laughable renunciation that is not the one of a single man, thou art not
	dead to the devoration of sin!
	Every human being not going to the extreme limit is the servant or the
	enemy of man and the accomplice of a nameless obscenity.
	Let us be a blight on the orchard, on all orchards of this world, even the
	least of these words will be judged during the times of reckoning, bearing
	a latent damnation a feverish seduction exasperated in death, every letter
	is a code to extreme horror, utter contempt and divine conflict; it is lethal
	to speak the language of resistance, every gasp exhales a particle of the
	remission of Golgotha, as if the blazing Logos demanded the exercise of a fragile power just above annihilation, the one of a harmony in ruins; it is a
	task for a man who cannot bear any longer to be, a chore for the lost in the
	denial of free will: perinde ac cadaver!
	Le vent de la vérité a répondu comme une gifle à la joue tendue de la piété.
	God of terror, very low dost thou bring us, very low hast thou brought us...

	An exhausted fall into disgrace, famished for peace, for a mere moment
	of respite in dying eternities, on the verge of being deprived of all
	humanity: nonsense is the outcome of every possible sens, it is the start of
	transcendence, the dissolution that spreads without limits and the critical
	violation what pleasure of inconceivable purity there is in being an object
	of abhorrence for the sole being to whom destiny links my life! The rupture
	is too profound to stand up, nothing remains but a terrified consolation in
	a laughable renunciation that is not the one of a single man, thou art not
	dead to the devoration of sin!
	Every human being not going to the extreme limit is the servant or the
	enemy of man and the accomplice of a nameless obscenity.
	Let us be a blight on the orchard, on all orchards of this world, even the
	least of these words will be judged during the times of reckoning, bearing
	a latent damnation a feverish seduction exasperated in death, every letter
	is a code to extreme horror, utter contempt and divine conflict it is lethal
	to speak the language of resistance, every gasp exhales a particle of the
	remission of Golgotha, as if the blazing Logos demanded the exercise of a fragile power just above annihilation, the one of a harmony in ruins it is a
	task for a man who cannot bear any longer to be, a chore for the lost in the
	denial of free will: perinde ac cadaver!
	Le vent de la ve rite a re pondu comme une gifle a la joue tendue de la pie te.
	God of terror, very low dost thou bring us, very low hast thou brought us...

	An exhausted fall into disgrace, famished for peace, for a mere moment
	of respite in dying eternities, on the verge of being deprived of all
	humanity: nonsense is the outcome of every possible sens, it is the start of
	transcendence, the dissolution that spreads without limits and the critical
	violation what pleasure of inconceivable purity there is in being an object
	of abhorrence for the sole being to whom destiny links my life! The rupture
	is too profound to stand up, nothing remains but a terrified consolation in
	a laughable renunciation that is not the one of a single man, thou art not
	dead to the devoration of sin!
	Every human being not going to the extreme limit is the servant or the
	enemy of man and the accomplice of a nameless obscenity.
	Let us be a blight on the orchard, on all orchards of this world, even the
	least of these words will be judged during the times of reckoning, bearing
	a latent damnation a feverish seduction exasperated in death, every letter
	is a code to extreme horror, utter contempt and divine conflict it is lethal
	to speak the language of resistance, every gasp exhales a particle of the
	remission of Golgotha, as if the blazing Logos demanded the exercise of a fragile power just above annihilation, the one of a harmony in ruins it is a
	task for a man who cannot bear any longer to be, a chore for the lost in the
	denial of free will: perinde ac cadaver!
	Le vent de la vé rité a ré pondu comme une gifle à la joue tendue de la pié té.
	God of terror, very low dost thou bring us, very low hast thou brought us...

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