Текст песни Fever Sheds (Ashenspire) с переводом

A man stare’s into fetid gutters and leering Meriden stares back;

what cleanses is beyond him

What cures? Far above him

A pantheon of pestilence; paupers enshrined in Fever Sheds

From holy typhus' hands — as lowly drudge of noxious seeds to sow,

a consecration of inflammation from callous soil did grow

As blighted walls for gangrenous minds, for rusting spirits and fever dreams;

opiate madness and sulphurous haze; all cathedrals to quarantine,

naught but abattoirs for screaming lunatics with blessed brimstone in their

lungs

All that is dissolute and loathsome becomes his city; a byword for intractable

human misery

And as they lead him through the gauntlet, the spires are reaching high,

playing arms of Atlas

Belching forth their cancerous mire, poverty’s sores weep into these gaping

mouths; the gaping mouths of child and gutter-dweller

This is how a nation dies; mile by God-forsaken mile, like seeds upon the

callous soil, mile by barren mile

Gas lights with tired eyes, their glare as perdition’s outer circles,

rest upon him — the conspirator — in machinations with Merihem

Yet, are his maladies to be counted amongst his blessings? His skin rots and

falls from his bones

In driving rain, from bridges o’er noisome waters hanging, he carves his words,

in anguished rage, on the pillars of the golden ribcage

Withering beast under dolorous sky, with gaunt, stooped wretch plunging harpoon

into the eye, saying: «All greatness firm in the storm»

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