Текст песни The Poet in Healing a Broken Tongue (Michael McGuire) с переводом

The poet in healing a broken tongue,

Imbibes only shards of reflected light,

Swallows shadows in full, Is engaged in only peripheral motion,

Chemical-time the only throttle of mercy,

Broken weather the crux of his apathy,

The dogma of his distance barks up his moon, Fixed upon the silent stars of

epic brooding.

The poet in healing a broken tongue,

Is a stranger on every sensuous-bound-signal, Only read by the tarot of his

dispatched soul, Ancient apothecaries offer no medicine for his agonies,

He is reduced to the orbit of a satellite’s agenda, Annex to his muse;

her breast un-milked,

Mired in the minutia of the agnostic nothingness, And tracing causalities of

the brute force of habit.

The poet in healing a broken tongue,

In the automata of his waking pulse,

He finds a door to the wounded parts of his will, And a slow landscape of

language ruins,

To put ink to the bible of this noble-nothingness, The workings of woe for the

empty stomach of dreaming,

So the magnitude of the holy wreck of the center, Spills into the winter-pools

of his being.

His own molecules of meaning gathered in folk-study,

In the afterbirth of the big-bang's anatomical agent,

Crying of death; aching in agonies; splitting the atom of his bread and being,

And all things that forfeit their orbit; fold and then fall to Earth,

The soul stopping boredom of this work that only wounds what it tries to heal,

And in keeping the emotional distance of artistic perspective,

(But alas there is no bird with such wings for this relegated flight),

Institutionalized-ecstasies; prescribe atrophic-agonies,

The impatience of the cure is what causes this disease,

So in the balm of epic silence his tongue ruminating sorrows,

His soul is spectator to flesh and fiction’s holy-war,

And the stop-gap junk of his flesh the battleground,

Complete and cataloged worlds wait for the seed of his throat,

Adams and Eves gestate in the wonder his undulating ego,

Yet he never questions the logistics of his muse and her wing tossed birds,

And so ravaged in these ministered medicines he lets loose his wounded words.

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