Verse:
Lo, one loveth rocke, another drinketh draught,
The thirde wandereth in landes of wonder,
And the fourth singeth of numbers three and four —
Yet what profiteth such song? What profiteth such thunder?
Once we had chambers full of soules,
Full of visions, full of cries,
Now naught remaineth — save the fish that rotteth
From the head of tyrant’s child.
Chorus:
Children of Minutes shall never ken
The circling of the clockes.
They come to the threshold, they smite the door,
They shatter the balance, they mocke the scales.
They trust not in triumph of good o’er ill,
Nor in triumph of ill o’er good.
They know but the greye day alone,
And they would dwell therein, dwell therein.
Children of Minutes Gothic Tongue
© Copyright: Руслан Трохнюк, 2026
Свидетельство о публикации №126062308854
Свидетельство о публикации №126062308854
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