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Funambulist Lyrics - Singles - Cormorant

None speak of the pious in history: 

Notre Dame conquered by a pote maudit. 

Beyond Frances gendarmes and butchery 

rose my twin-eyed concrete Babel staring 

down the gods. 

Stir their hearts; 

Men applaud 

crime as art. 

 

Violent birth. 

Pile driver lancers 

pierce the earth 

and bleed the clouds. 

(Walk on its veins). 

 

Steel and glass. 

The propane dancers 

wrap this mass 

in burning shrouds. 

(Forest of cranes). 

 

New York, I adopt this child. 

 

Flight over the ocean, 

Mind as vine to stone 

on a tower. 

Sleight of foot in motion, 

twined around a throne. 

I count and count the hours. 

 

Alea jacta est. 

 

Wire. 

A workmans attire. 

The years we conspired 

finally bear fruit 

this August 

mo(u)rn 

a nation forlorn, 

its emperor shorn 

of august suit 

by modest 

blades. 

 

As I walk he fades. 

 

Crate: 

five hundred pound weight. 

Whisked up the freight 

to south level 

one zero 

fo(u)r 

the nightwatchmans snore, 

my skull on the floor, 

sold to the devil 

for heroes 

deeds. 

 

To the skies I lead. 

 

Bowman draws the string. 

Ropes and cable 

...cling stowaway to the arrows flight; 

at missiles point, north and south unite. 

Cordina, clamp, cavaletti, knot 

At backbreaking dawn, the wires pull taut. 

 

Rope still sways. 

Winds will rage. 

Heart ablaze, 

I wage 

war 

on fate. 

Fear devoid, 

lungs inflate, 

tempt the void: 

 

The first step. 

 

Le nant. 

Vos chants, vos cris, je les entends. 

A chaque pas, les nuages sadoucissent. 

Je danse. Elgance. 

Je me permets un sourire: 

Si je meurs, quelle belle mort! 

Avec les dieux mes pieds. 

 

I wave, I sit, I rest, I dream. 

 

Speak to birds 

words of calm. 

Psalms of faith 

swathe no auspice 

wreaked by siren howls. 

 

Uproar from the lowland: 

the rattle of lawmens chains. 

The lords of the northland 

cast me to the plains 

a mortal man. 

 

The last step. 

 

Nona, spin your thread. 

Join it to the Sun, 

so I may walk. 

Morta, rouse your dead. 

Tell them of the Sun, 

for with me they walk.