1. |
Prelude
00:20
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2. |
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Dry my hair, my feet are clean. Dry my hair, I'll be your queen. And my young fire-blown skeleton, like new born glass is gently quivering, I hold death in my lap, I suckle him, new born lips gently spittling, sweating life from every pore. Dry my hair, my feet are clean. Dry my hair, I'll be your queen. And once my heart had a skeleton, a brave young heart, young fire-blown skeleton, like newborn glass, sugar, open. But flame headed death is now my companion, as we walk barefoot the glass rattling garden, my bled-out, love flushed, young wild skeleton, winter's gaze where flame has broken, burns my tears, my heart outspoken, shaken down red and burning, the fire trees wildly sing. Dry my hair, my feet are clean. Dry my hair, I'll be your queen. Dry my hair, on falling stars. Dry my hair in young death airs.
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3. |
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Though death may use my bones as trophies, black and sown with tears. Though death may souse the stars in my galaxies, perfume all my fears. I had a young head, full of fresh, sweet flowers, iris, rose bouquet. Flowers pressed in between life's pages, blossoms cut to stem. Though death may use my bones as trophies, black and sown with tears. Though death may souse the stars in my galaxies, perfume all my fears. My face grew pale as my death grew long; shadow cast on a waning moon, though violets fade no fade to my pallor will flush the face of my marble tomb. All my days I've been wandering in wondering, flowers pressed thin and fair. Though death may use my bones as trophies, I alight on air.
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4. |
Haar Cradle Song
02:19
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Oh my son, go capture the moon, thistles grow wild in your heart.
The haar is gone and with it, the sun, foreign the night, its black art.
I'll turn in my dream, more mother than queen, wait for your breath in the dark.
The stars I fear are born on a tear, the eagle has dust in his eye.
Oh my son, the haar is gone and with it the cold white moon.
But stay asleep, no eagle shall weep til your breath is still in the dawn.
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5. |
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Love is A God! By those who feed his fires. Some die for him, others he keeps, shackled in locks and chains.
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6. |
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My falling court of snow, would you crush a fallen star? Sweet tear struck rivulet, to reveal its dying scent. France I lift your mouth, to the sleep kiss of my eyes, whose flame headed girl danced with the birds in the childhood of her life. I rise by the silver stream, O driftwood of my dream, you have my throne of cold blue flame, when I look back in my sleep. In dreams that snow in dream, mermaids swim my inner fields, I hold my breath, see how they feel in the snowy pass of sea.
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7. |
Quand Vous L'Aimiez
03:07
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Quand vous l'aimiez, elle usait de froideur. Si vous souffriez pour l'amour. La tristesse de coeur, votre grande ardeur. Ce loyal coeur, tristesse heure.
Qui vient d'aimer de trop d'affection, son doigt montrait la tristesse de coeur. Quand vous l'aimiez.
Trans. When you made love, she lay with cold disdain. If you were suffering the heat of passion. Sadness of the heart, your fervent love. Your loyal heart, sadness hour, that comes from loving with too much feeling, her hand would make heart sadness, when you made love.
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8. |
In Angel's Weed
01:44
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In angel's weed, I saw a noble Queen above the skies in sphere of crystal light. Who on earth not long before was seen, of diverse heinous crimes to be indict. By false suspect and jealousy of those whom fear had wrought to be her mortal foes.
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9. |
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I am god-filled, a storm on its knees. Listing, blind, rescinds. Nothing just the symptom of sky. As she folds quiet into milk, I unfold quiet into death. My blindfold hides churning eyes that beat buttermilk gold. Wet lashes trembling on the mermaid spy. The cockle-shell cuckold, chained to the air.
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10. |
Que Suis-Je Helas?
05:24
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Lyrics are transposed from the words of Mary Queen of Scots in her final poem, Sonnet Written at Fotheringhay Castle, (trans. Robin Bell)
Que suis-je helas? Et de quoi sert ma vie?
Je ne suis fors qu'un corps prive de coeur,
Une ombre vaine, un objet de malheur
Qui na plus rien que de mourir en vie.
Alas what am I? What use has my life?
I am but a body whose heart's torn away,
A vain shadow, an object of misery
Who has nothing left but death-in-life.
Plus ne me portez, O ennemis, d'envie
A qui n'a plus l'esprit a la grandeur.
J'ai consomme d'excessive douleur
Votre ire en bref de voir assouvie.
O my enemies, set all your envy aside;
I've no more eagerness for high domain;
I've borne too long the burden of my pain
To see your anger swiftly satisfied.
Et vous, amis, qui m'avez tenue chere,
Souvenez-vous que sans coeur et sans sante
Je ne saurais aucune bonne ouevre faire,
Souhaitez donc fin de calamite
And you, my friends who have loved me so true,
Remember, lacking health and heart and peace,
There is nothing worthwhile I can do;
Ask only that my misery should cease
Et que, ici-bas etant assez punie,
J'aie ma part en la joie infinie.
And that, being punished in a world like this,
I have my portion in eternal bliss.
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MacGillivray Scotland, UK
MacGillivray is a Scottish poet and musician, signed to Antigen Records and 100 Acre Recordings and published by Bloodaxe, 'The Nine of Diamonds: Surroial Mordantless' 2016 and 'The Last Wolf of Scotland' (2nd edition) Redhen, Los Angeles. MacGillivray has performed with The Fall, Arlo Guthrie, Thurston Moore, Alan Moore, Shirley Collins and many others. ... more
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