Sopor Aeternus: Flowers In Formaldehyde (2004)

In An Hour Darkly

In einer dunklen Stunde, ach,
Alle Stunden sind dunkel hier.
Aus einem Becher von zartestem Flieder
Trinken wir Tee - allein mit mir.

"My name is BROKEN CHALICE and leaden
I am filled all the way up to the brim;
Filled with sadness, and with misery,
And the most terrible of things.
Very soon I might overflow I fear,
As I am filled with so much anger...
And far too many tears".

These words come from the depth of my discontent,
To testify to you of the displeasure
That I harbour against the world - and therefore myself.
Hush, here lies truth, sweet child, in all its obvious simplicity.

A long time ago it seems
The boy has come to an agreement with himself,
To remain in this wretched life for as long as
It hasn't reached the point of becoming totally... unbearable.
Yes, he was prepared to tolerate
The bleakness of all things, of darkness,
Even nothingness itself,
All of this perhaps only to prove
That life really isn't worth an effort,
That an early VOLUNTARY DEATH is absolutely ALWAYS justified.

Yes, I DO confess.
I have a secret wish:
I often dream of dying,
To dissolve completely,
To simply vanish, so that nothing,
Not a single grain, would ever remain of me.
No spark, no energy, no further existence for me,
But most of all: NO REBIRTH!!!

Alas, if I had this chance, this possibility,
How free from worries could I be,
If I only had this ONE guarantee...
That there would be NO MORE tomorrows lying in wait for me...

The Conqueror Worm [1]

Lo! 'tis a gala night
Within the lonesome latter years!
An angel throng, bewinged, bedight
In veils, and drowned in tears,
Sit in a theatre, to see
A play of hopes and fears,
While the orchestra breathes fitfully
The music of the spheres.

Mimes, in the form of God on high,
Mutter and mumble low,
And hither and thither fly -
Mere puppets they, who come and go
At bidding of vast formless things
That shift the scenery to and fro,
Flapping from out their Condor wings
Invisible Woe!

That motley drama - oh, be sure
It shall not be forgot!
With its Phantom chased for evermore,
By a crowd that seize it not,
Through a circle that ever returneth in
To the self-same spot,
And much of Madness, and more of Sin,
And Horror the soul of the plot.

But see, amid the mimic rout
A crawling shape intrude!
A blood-red thing that writhes from out
The scenic solitude!
It writhes! - it writhes! - with mortal pangs
The mimes become its food,
And seraphs sob at vermin fangs
In human gore imbued.

Out - out are the lights - out all!
And, over each quivering form,
The curtain, a funeral pall,
Comes down with the rush of a storm,
While the angels, all pallid and wan,
Uprising, unveiling, affirm
That the play is the tragedy, "Man,"
And its hero the Conqueror Worm.


Oh, wie gern' würd' er Euch künden
Von der Welt und wie er sie sieht,
Doch wie könnte von etwas er sprechen,
Von dem er absolut nichts versteht?!
Wie gern' würd' er Euch singen
Von der Liebe, die alles durchwebt,
Doch ihm bleibt nur die traurige Klage,
Denn noch keinen Tag hat er's erlebt.
Ach, wie gern' würd' er Euch preisen
Von der Freiheit unendlichem Glück,
Doch straften dann seine eig'nen Ketten
Ihn Lügen bei jedem Schritt.
Gar wohlbehütet ist sein Leben,
Und dies gibt ihm die Möglichkeit,
Leidend im Dunkel langzuliegen,
Pflegend nur die Traurigkeit.

Minnesang, oh Minnesang,
Unser Arsch ist fett, uns're Nase lang.
Von gar nichts handelt dieses Lied,
Da Einfalt nun mal nichts gebiert.

Von allen Melodien hat er
Die traurigste für sich erwählt,
Denn sie gleicht so sehr seinem Wesen
Und dem maßlosen Leid, das ihn quält.
Eine Sage von Monstern und Feen,
Ja, von Heiden auch und Zauberkraft,
Von Bestimmung, von Zufall und Wundern
Und dem Schläfer, der am End' erwacht.
Ja, all dies steht geschrieben schon in dem Buch,
Das man Schicksal nennt,
Und obgleich schon vor Zeiten ersonnen,
Seinen Ausgang hier doch niemand kennt.
Ein Buch, das sich in Schweigen hüllt,
Seine Zeilen beim Lesen erst entstehen,
Damit die neugierig blätternd' Hand
Nichts als leere Seiten soll seh'n.

Minnesang, oh Minnesang,
Wenn das Ende näht,
Wird's uns doch schrecklich bang.
Von gar nichts handelt dieses Lied,
Weil Einfalt nun mal nichts gebiert.

Von der Einfalt

"...Bestimmt seit tausend Jahren schon
Auf dem kalten Grund des Meer's;
Ach, sag', mein Kind, Du kennst den Schlaf:
Wie lange ist es wohl schon her?
Wie Du, so sind auch wir geschlagen
Und im Tode träumen wir.
Du weißt, es ist nicht wirklich tot,
Was dort unten ewig liegt,
Weil eines Tages ja die Zeit
Den Tod letztendlich doch besiegt."

Do You Know My Name? / What Has Happened While We Slept?

We have revived the water,
Or perhaps it simply woke up on its own.
Anticipatingly it's murmuring now along its ancient bed:
"Where is the stone - the tower - that worships and reveres us?" -
"No such a stone is here!", I swear,
Well-feeling that there should be.

On hottest rods
We are shooting through the night
Along a private garden-way,
Though we no longer have any business being here.
On the left-hand side: a green-house of some market-garden.
What fragile shoots are sheltered there?

Merry Rock, dressed in the midnight-gown of tears,
He is sitting on the floor and cries.
His eyes are gazing at the western sky.
Oh, everything seems lost to him.
Tapping his shoulder gently,
My desire hardly concealed, you've done a lot already,
And much more you will achieve.
Sweet syrup consolation is dripping from my mouth, can I - myself -
Believe this solemn vow?

I shattered all the mirrors,
Fearfully hoping that they won't be able
To remember my face.
Darkest of all lights, most greedy to embrace,
Surrounded by demons, all of them breathing - in life.

Between the tides... the time seems endlessly:
The force of habit, or whatever,
Pulled me back into a well-known pain.
What uses the knowledge of my progressions,
When the old world is gone,
Without a new one in sight, with my new-found life... -
I am homeless... again.

      [1] Cтихотворение "The Conqueror Worm" Эдгара Аллана По.