The Owl
Part1 - the butterfly’s
A beautiful soul, tortured and in the possession of music
les soi-disant belle a appelé lui laide
It speaks out the words of love through the lips of death
Music greater than god, to be present in a lonely man
With its twists and thrills, that take seize over me.
I am a moth amongst the butterflies of blue.
And the messiah, with his immortal beloved.
A life I live with the pain he felt,
Where the days are like years, and seconds like months.
His music will be our only escape,
Out of this so very dark and deep tunnel
They are known as the butterflies of blue
Their wings are of beauty, but their hearts are of black
Part 2 – the roses
A mind of love, trapped behind a wall of self concept
le but de notre existence teinté par l'apparence
Through the gardens crafted from the love within his heart
It’s a beautiful song, filled with its subtle complexity
Tones that saw and roar! he says, “I set them down in notes.”
I am a weed amongst the roses of red,
And the Buddha, with his immortal beloved
The roses, they grow within the tunnel of darkness
Where the seasons are all stained with cynical morals.
Oh summer winter spring and fall
Imposters of truth and love
They are known as the roses of red
There petals are of beauty, but their souls are of dust.
Part 3 – the crow
A life that is of great compassion that exceeds all others
Échos de la musique grâce à notre âme
A kind of wisdom which cannot be heard through the ears,
but only with the heart.
This is the song the bird of purity has sung.
We are the owls amongst the black crows.
Ludwig van Beethoven and his immortal beloved
Will walk with me in the garden, outside the gates of depression
With the moths and weeds
It is us who live the life of purity
The music will remain our paint, for this dark colored canvas
We are known as the owls of symphony and knowledge.
Our lives are lived in darkness, with our body’s that do not reflect our grace.
Part 4 – The Garden
The garden with all of its colors and smells
Filled with the moths, that hides behind the rocks and leaves
And all of the sounds that call to spirits,
That dwells within this green and red Eden
Will protect us from what you call beauty
For its has no soul, It is hollow
Like the butterfly’s of blue.
Their wings are of beauty, but their souls are of black
This is the desperate song of the Owl,
To wake you from your ignorance
Pour sa symphonie ne peut jamais mourir, ils sont l'alpha et l'oméga.
His music Is true beauty,
To all the ‘immortal beloveds”.
In some ways, this is prophetic...A sad reflection on what we value in our reality...doomed... and yet, in fact, we are blinded to the real music of our souls...our only hope...if only we knew...
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