en   fr   de   ro   es   it
     Username:  Password:  

registerforgot password?

Sunday, 20 August 2017
Browse by artists Browse
LAST  Advertisements
LAST  Last Queries


Listen Stelios kazantzidis - tis gerakinas gios


Hal se zatoulal (Tata Bojs)

Jsem Hal devět tisíc
místo srdce baterku mám
věrný přítel ze světa číslic
místo jídla adaptér dostávám

jedničky a nuly za mě hovoří komunikovat umím i nonverbálně
z digitální paměti když se vynoří elektronický jazyk zní univerzálně

jsem Hal, který se zatoulal

jsem ztracen ve světě lidí
kamerou snímám všechny ty zmatky není lehké tu robotem býti
zoufale hledám cestu zpátky

...odkdy mají roboti maso?

člověk stvořil robota
procesor oddaně klokotá
pes je nejlepší přítel člověka
v přátelství je pravá hodnota

jsem Hal, který se zatoulal

My Faith Is Stronger Than The Hills (Katarzyna Nosowska)

My Faith is larger than the Hills
So when the Hills decay
My Faith must take the Purple Wheel
To show the Sun the way

'Tis first He steps upon the Vane
And then upon the Hill
And then abroad the World He go
To do His Golden Will

And if His Yellow feet should miss
The Bird would not arise
The Flowers would slumber on their Stems
No Bells have Paradise

How dare I, therefore, stint a faith
On which so vast depends
Lest Firmament should fail for me
The Rivet in the Bands

Evening Of The Day (Supergrass)

Tis the evening of the day
See the daylight turned away
Then I'm looking up at you
See that everything that's true
I'm a thousand miles away
On another sunny day

As I'm looking at the view
All I'm thinking of is you
(if) she's not on that three fifteen
Then I'm gonna know what sorrow means
(if) she's not on that three fifteen
Then I'm gonna know what sorrow means

Is this the parting of the ways
Summer light and daisy chains
As I'm looking up at you
See that everything that's true
On the mountains, on the plains
Railway lines and fierce....

As I'm looking at the view
All I'm thinking of is you
(if) she's not on that three fifteen
Then I'm gonna know what sorrow means
(if) she's not on that three fifteen
Then I'm gonna know what sorrow means

Tis the evening of the day
See the daylight turned away
As I'm looking at the view
Feel my heart is growing oh-so
(if) she's not on that three fifteen
Then I'm gonna know what sorrow means
(if) she's not on that three fifteen
Then I'm gonna know what sorrow means

He's so stoned
Doesn't really know what he's on about
Maybe he should go and lay down
He's steamed/stoned/pissed
Doesn't really know what he's on about
Maybe he should go and lay down

(Run away!)
(She'll be over here in a minute)
(I'm going before she comes over)

Sonnets 61-90 (Crystal K)


Is it thy will thy image should keep open
My heavy eyelids to the weary night?
Dost thou desire my slumbers should be broken,
While shadows like to thee do mock my sight?
Is it thy spirit that thou send'st from thee
So far from home into my deeds to pry,
To find out shames and idle hours in me,
The scope and tenor of thy jealousy?
O, no! thy love, though much, is not so great:
It is my love that keeps mine eye awake;
Mine own true love that doth my rest defeat,
To play the watchman ever for thy sake:
For thee watch I whilst thou dost wake elsewhere,
From me far off, with others all too near.


Sin of self-love possesseth all mine eye
And all my soul and all my every part;
And for this sin there is no remedy,
It is so grounded inward in my heart.
Methinks no face so gracious is as mine,
No shape so true, no truth of such account;
And for myself mine own worth do define,
As I all other in all worths surmount.
But when my glass shows me myself indeed,
Beated and chopp'd with tann'd antiquity,
Mine own self-love quite contrary I read;
Self so self-loving were iniquity.
'Tis thee, myself, that for myself I praise,
Painting my age with beauty of thy days.


Against my love shall be, as I am now,
With Time's injurious hand crush'd and o'er-worn;
When hours have drain'd his blood and fill'd his brow
With lines and wrinkles; when his youthful morn
Hath travell'd on to age's steepy night,
And all those beauties whereof now he's king
Are vanishing or vanish'd out of sight,
Stealing away the treasure of his spring;
For such a time do I now fortify
Against confounding age's cruel knife,
That he shall never cut from memory
My sweet love's beauty, though my lover's life:
His beauty shall in these black lines be seen,
And they shall live, and he in them still green.


When I have seen by Time's fell hand defaced
The rich proud cost of outworn buried age;
When sometime lofty towers I see down-razed
And brass eternal slave to mortal rage;
When I have seen the hungry ocean gain
Advantage on the kingdom of the shore,
And the firm soil win of the watery main,
Increasing store with loss and loss with store;
When I have seen such interchange of state,
Or state itself confounded to decay;
Ruin hath taught me thus to ruminate,
That Time will come and take my love away.
This thought is as a death, which cannot choose
But weep to have that which it fears to lose.


Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea,
But sad mortality o'er-sways their power,
How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea,
Whose action is no stronger than a flower?
O, how shall summer's honey breath hold out
Against the wreckful siege of battering days,
When rocks impregnable are not so stout,
Nor gates of steel so strong, but Time decays?
O fearful meditation! where, alack,
Shall Time's best jewel from Time's chest lie hid?
Or what strong hand can hold his swift foot back?
Or who his spoil of beauty can forbid?
O, none, unless this miracle have might,
That in black ink my love may still shine bright.


Tired with all these, for restful death I cry,
As, to behold desert a beggar born,
And needy nothing trimm'd in jollity,
And purest faith unhappily forsworn,
And guilded honour shamefully misplaced,
And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted,
And right perfection wrongfully disgraced,
And strength by limping sway disabled,
And art made tongue-tied by authority,
And folly doctor-like controlling skill,
And simple truth miscall'd simplicity,
And captive good attending captain ill:
Tired with all these, from these would I be gone,
Save that, to die, I leave my love alone.


Ah! wherefore with infection should he live,
And with his presence grace impiety,
That sin by him advantage should achieve
And lace itself with his society?
Why should false painting imitate his cheek
And steal dead seeing of his living hue?
Why should poor beauty indirectly seek
Roses of shadow, since his rose is true?
Why should he live, now Nature bankrupt is,
Beggar'd of blood to blush through lively veins?
For she hath no exchequer now but his,
And, proud of many, lives upon his gains.
O, him she stores, to show what wealth she had
In days long since, before these last so bad.


Thus is his cheek the map of days outworn,
When beauty lived and died as flowers do now,
Before the bastard signs of fair were born,
Or durst inhabit on a living brow;
Before the golden tresses of the dead,
The right of sepulchres, were shorn away,
To live a second life on second head;
Ere beauty's dead fleece made another**:
In him those holy antique hours are seen,
Without all ornament, itself and true,
Making no summer of another's green,
Robbing no old to dress his beauty new;
And him as for a map doth Nature store,
To show false Art what beauty was of yore.


Those parts of thee that the world's eye doth view
Want nothing that the thought of hearts can mend;
All tongues, the voice of souls, give thee that due,
Uttering bare truth, even so as foes commend.
Thy outward thus with outward praise is crown'd;
But those same tongues that give thee so thine own
In other accents do this praise confound
By seeing farther than the eye hath shown.
They look into the beauty of thy mind,
And that, in guess, they measure by thy deeds;
Then, churls, their thoughts, although their eyes were kind,
To thy fair flower add the rank smell of weeds:
But why thy odour matcheth not thy show,
The solve is this, that thou dost common grow.


That thou art blamed shall not be thy defect,
For slander's mark was ever yet the fair;
The ornament of beauty is suspect,
A crow that flies in heaven's sweetest air.
So thou be good, slander doth but approve
Thy worth the greater, being woo'd of time;
For canker vice the sweetest buds doth love,
And thou present'st a pure unstained prime.
Thou hast pass'd by the ambush of young days,
Either not assail'd or victor being charged;
Yet this thy praise cannot be so thy praise,
To tie up envy evermore enlarged:
If some suspect of ill mask'd not thy show,
Then thou alone kingdoms of hearts shouldst owe.


No longer mourn for me when I am dead
Then you shall hear the surly sullen bell
Give warning to the world that I am fled
From this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell:
Nay, if you read this line, remember not
The hand that writ it; for I love you so
That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot
If thinking on me then should make you woe.
O, if, I say, you look upon this verse
When I perhaps compounded am with clay,
Do not so much as my poor name rehearse.
But let your love even with my life decay,
Lest the wise world should look into your moan
And mock you with me after I am gone.


O, lest the world should task you to recite
What merit lived in me, that you should love
After my death, dear love, forget me quite,
For you in me can nothing worthy prove;
Unless you would devise some virtuous lie,
To do more for me than mine own desert,
And hang more praise upon deceased I
Than niggard truth would willingly impart:
O, lest your true love may seem false in this,
That you for love speak well of me untrue,
My name be buried where my body is,
And live no more to shame nor me nor you.
For I am shamed by that which I bring forth,
And so should you, to love things nothing worth.


That time of year thou mayst in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
In me thou seest the twilight of such day
As after sunset fadeth in the west,
Which by and by black night doth take away,
Death's second self, that seals up all in rest.
In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,
As the death-bed whereon it must expire
Consumed with that which it was nourish'd by.
This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more strong,
To love that well which thou must leave ere long.


But be contented: when that fell arrest
Without all bail shall carry me away,
My life hath in this line some interest,
Which for memorial still with thee shall stay.
When thou reviewest this, thou dost review
The very part was consecrate to thee:
The earth can have but earth, which is his due;
My spirit is thine, the better part of me:
So then thou hast but lost the dregs of life,
The prey of worms, my body being dead,
The coward conquest of a wretch's knife,
Too base of thee to be remembered.
The worth of that is that which it contains,
And that is this, and this with thee remains.


So are you to my thoughts as food to life,
Or as sweet-season'd showers are to the ground;
And for the peace of you I hold such strife
As 'twixt a miser and his wealth is found;
Now proud as an enjoyer and anon
Doubting the filching age will steal his treasure,
Now counting best to be with you alone,
Then better'd that the world may see my pleasure;
Sometime all full with feasting on your sight
And by and by clean starved for a look;
Possessing or pursuing no delight,
Save what is had or must from you be took.
Thus do I pine and surfeit day by day,
Or gluttoning on all, or all away.


Why is my verse so barren of new pride,
So far from variation or quick change?
Why with the time do I not glance aside
To new-found methods and to compounds strange?
Why write I still all one, ever the same,
And keep invention in a noted weed,
That every word doth almost tell my name,
Showing their birth and where they did proceed?
O, know, sweet love, I always write of you,
And you and love are still my argument;
So all my best is dressing old words new,
Spending again what is already spent:
For as the sun is daily new and old,
So is my love still telling what is told.


Thy glass will show thee how thy beauties wear,
Thy dial how thy precious minutes waste;
The vacant leaves thy mind's imprint will bear,
And of this book this learning mayst thou taste.
The wrinkles which thy glass will truly show
Of mouthed graves will give thee memory;
Thou by thy dial's shady stealth mayst know
Time's thievish progress to eternity.
Look, what thy memory can not contain
Commit to these waste blanks, and thou shalt find
Those children nursed, deliver'd from thy brain,
To take a new acquaintance of thy mind.
These offices, so oft as thou wilt look,
Shall profit thee and much enrich thy book.


So oft have I invoked thee for my Muse
And found such fair assistance in my verse
As every alien pen hath got my use
And under thee their poesy disperse.
Thine eyes that taught the dumb on high to sing
And heavy ignorance aloft to fly
Have added feathers to the learned's wing
And given grace a double majesty.
Yet be most proud of that which I compile,
Whose influence is thine and born of thee:
In others' works thou dost but mend the style,
And arts with thy sweet graces graced be;
But thou art all my art and dost advance
As high as learning my rude ignorance.


Whilst I alone did call upon thy aid,
My verse alone had all thy gentle grace,
But now my gracious numbers are decay'd
And my sick Muse doth give another place.
I grant, sweet love, thy lovely argument
Deserves the travail of a worthier pen,
Yet what of thee thy poet doth invent
He robs thee of and pays it thee again.
He lends thee virtue and he stole that word
From thy behavior; beauty doth he give
And found it in thy cheek; he can afford
No praise to thee but what in thee doth live.
Then thank him not for that which he doth say,
Since what he owes thee thou thyself dost pay.


O, how I faint when I of you do write,
Knowing a better spirit doth use your name,
And in the praise thereof spends all his might,
To make me tongue-tied, speaking of your fame!
But since your worth, wide as the ocean is,
The humble as the proudest sail doth bear,
My saucy bark inferior far to his
On your broad main doth wilfully appear.
Your shallowest help will hold me up afloat,
Whilst he upon your soundless deep doth ride;
Or being wreck'd, I am a worthless boat,
He of tall building and of goodly pride:
Then if he thrive and I be cast away,
The worst was this; my love was my decay.


Or I shall live your epitaph to make,
Or you survive when I in earth am rotten;
From hence your memory death cannot take,
Although in me each part will be forgotten.
Your name from hence immortal life shall have,
Though I, once gone, to all the world must die:
The earth can yield me but a common grave,
When you entombed in men's eyes shall lie.
Your monument shall be my gentle verse,
Which eyes not yet created shall o'er-read,
And tongues to be your being shall rehearse
When all the breathers of this world are dead;
You still shall live--such virtue hath my pen--
Where breath most breathes, even in the mouths of men.


I grant thou wert not married to my Muse
And therefore mayst without attaint o'erlook
The dedicated words which writers use
Of their fair subject, blessing every book
Thou art as fair in knowledge as in hue,
Finding thy worth a limit past my praise,
And therefore art enforced to seek anew
Some fresher stamp of the time-bettering days
And do so, love; yet when they have devised
What strained touches rhetoric can lend,
Thou truly fair wert truly sympathized
In true plain words by thy true-telling friend;
And their gross painting might be better used
Where cheeks need blood; in thee it is abused.


I never saw that you did painting need
And therefore to your fair no painting set;
I found, or thought I found, you did exceed
The barren tender of a poet's debt;
And therefore have I slept in your report,
That you yourself being extant well might show
How far a modern quill doth come too short,
Speaking of worth, what worth in you doth grow.
This silence for my sin you did impute,
Which shall be most my glory, being dumb;
For I impair not beauty being mute,
When others would give life and bring a tomb.
There lives more life in one of your fair eyes
Than both your poets can in praise devise.


Who is it that says most? which can say more
Than this rich praise, that you alone are you?
In whose confine immured is the store
Which should example where your equal grew.
Lean penury within that pen doth dwell
That to his subject lends not some small glory;
But he that writes of you, if he can tell
That you are you, so dignifies his story,
Let him but copy what in you is writ,
Not making worse what nature made so clear,
And such a counterpart shall fame his wit,
Making his style admired every where.
You to your beauteous blessings add a curse,
Being fond on praise, which makes your praises worse.


My tongue-tied Muse in manners holds her still,
While comments of your praise, richly compiled,
Reserve their character with golden quill
And precious phrase by all the Muses filed.
I think good thoughts whilst other write good words,
And like unletter'd clerk still cry 'Amen'
To every hymn that able spirit affords
In polish'd form of well-refined pen.
Hearing you praised, I say ''Tis so, 'tis true,'
And to the most of praise add something more;
But that is in my thought, whose love to you,
Though words come hindmost, holds his rank before.
Then others for the breath of words respect,
Me for my dumb thoughts, speaking in effect.


Was it the proud full sail of his great verse,
Bound for the prize of all too precious you,
That did my ripe thoughts in my brain inhearse,
Making their tomb the womb wherein they grew?
Was it his spirit, by spirits taught to write
Above a mortal pitch, that struck me dead?
No, neither he, nor his compeers by night
Giving him aid, my verse astonished.
He, nor that affable familiar ghost
Which nightly gulls him with intelligence
As victors of my silence cannot boast;
I was not sick of any fear from thence:
But when your countenance fill'd up his line,
Then lack'd I matter; that enfeebled mine.


Farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing,
And like enough thou know'st thy estimate:
The charter of thy worth gives thee releasing;
My bonds in thee are all determinate.
For how do I hold thee but by thy granting?
And for that riches where is my deserving?
The cause of this fair gift in me is wanting,
And so my patent back again is swerving.
Thyself thou gavest, thy own worth then not knowing,
Or me, to whom thou gavest it, else mistaking;
So thy great gift, upon misprision growing,
Comes home again, on better judgment making.
Thus have I had thee, as a dream doth flatter,
In sleep a king, but waking no such matter.


When thou shalt be disposed to set me light,
And place my merit in the eye of scorn,
Upon thy side against myself I'll fight,
And prove thee virtuous, though thou art forsworn.
With mine own weakness being best acquainted,
Upon thy part I can set down a story
Of faults conceal'd, wherein I am attainted,
That thou in losing me shalt win much glory:
And I by this will be a gainer too;
For bending all my loving thoughts on thee,
The injuries that to myself I do,
Doing thee vantage, double-vantage me.
Such is my love, to thee I so belong,
That for thy right myself will bear all wrong.


Say that thou didst forsake me for some fault,
And I will comment upon that offence;
Speak of my lameness, and I straight will halt,
Against thy reasons making no defence.
Thou canst not, love, disgrace me half so ill,
To set a form upon desired change,
As I'll myself disgrace: knowing thy will,
I will acquaintance strangle and look strange,
Be absent from thy walks, and in my tongue
Thy sweet beloved name no more shall dwell,
Lest I, too much profane, should do it wrong
And haply of our old acquaintance tell.
For thee against myself I'll vow debate,
For I must ne'er love him whom thou dost hate.


Then hate me when thou wilt; if ever, now;
Now, while the world is bent my deeds to cross,
Join with the spite of fortune, make me bow,
And do not drop in for an after-loss:
Ah, do not, when my heart hath 'scoped this sorrow,
Come in the rearward of a conquer'd woe;
Give not a windy night a rainy morrow,
To linger out a purposed overthrow.
If thou wilt leave me, do not leave me last,
When other petty griefs have done their spite
But in the onset come; so shall I taste
At first the very worst of fortune's might,
And other strains of woe, which now seem woe,
Compared with loss of thee will not seem so.

Bring Forth Ye Shadow (Theatre Of Tragedy)

Time is an abyss
Profound as a thousand nights
I sojourn my haste, I make respites
For what availeith this eager pace?
One step more naught to face
Save the heirloom fatal kiss.

I rave no more 'gainst Time or Fate,
For lo! my own shall ne'er come to me,
Yet! Who doth my future narrate?
Dim the lights, I cannot see!
Bring forth ye Shadow!
With whom danceth thou?

Time hath stopp'd
Yet for others ne'er halteth
For me the Pages of Life do not turn,
Lo! on the funeral pyre they burn.
The oh so eathing Velvet Darkness they fear -
Heed! wherefore delve a burrow,
When in my arms "O! Come here"?
I say, elsewhither is naught but sorrow!

For what deemest thou so dear thy blood
When through my veins it could flood?
Bide to merry - make me unaptly
And hence grant me the fell gift,
The gift of passing on the dark trick.
'Tis such a brazen act of **
Trifle for thee, yet for me grandly thrift,
O! such an innocence depriv'd so hastily

Alas, for what deemest thou so dear thy blood
When through my veins it will flood?

rose room take 1 (gametime)

Red Norvo - Rose Room Take 1 Music Downloads Red Norvo - Rose Room Take 1 Ringtone I want to take you to a little roomA little room where all the roses bloomI want to lead you into Nature's hallWhere ev'ry year the roses give a ballThey have an orchestra up in the treesFor their musicians are the birds and beesAnd they will sing us a songAs we are strolling along In sunny Roseland, where summer breezes are playingWhere the honey bees are "A-Maying"There all the roses are swayingDancing while the meadow brook flowsThe moon when shining is more than ever designingFor 'tis ever then I am piningPining to be sweetly recliningSomewhere in RoselandBeside a beautiful rose The ball is over and tulips meetTheir little kisses are so short and sweetThe lilies nod to the forget-me-notsWhen they're departing in their flower potsBut all the roses with their spirits highRemain to love until they droop and dieAnd dear, why shouldn't it beJust so with you and with me In sunny Roseland, where summer breezes are playingWhere the honey bees are "A-Maying"There all the roses are swayingDancing while the meadow brook flowsThe moon when shining is more than ever designingFor 'tis ever then I am piningPining to be sweetly recliningSomewhere in RoselandBeside a beautiful rose------------- Lyrics Powered by LyricFind Written By WILLIAMS, HARRY/HICKMAN, ARTLyrics © EMI Music Publishing Red Norvo - Rose Room Take 1 Music Downloads Red Norvo - Rose Room Take 1 Ringtone

Roman Leader (Grass Roots)

Sitting on your throne as the pagan ruler
With your servants carrying all the weight
This man who come and speak false amongst the people
Lead them to go astray

This roman leader
This roman leader

Sitting on your throne as the pagan ruler
With your servants carrying all the weight
This man who come and speak false amongst the people
Lead them to go astray
The white robed man
Claiming to live up Jah, claiming to praise up Jah
Claiming to chant out Jah
This roman leader with the mark of the beast
Who worship the pagan saviour?

Turn your heads to the east, we sight of the true lion
The sons did see, the sign of the true father
They want to rule you, they want to fool us
To brainwash us, they school us
Tis the work of teitan, teitan, teitan

Opkeplurt! (Eline)

probs voor lijn 5

ja toch

En voor jou met je lekkere lijf

euh wacht even

ja lekker lijf

huh je vind me spange

mag ik je tepel lippe


ooh laat me ff likke ooouuuh

hey wacht eventjes tis mijn texgoe wat doe je



je bil voelt goed


mmmm je doet

mag ik me ff voorstelle aan je


luister ff eve

nee blijf ma uit men buurt

ik ben eline
en ik heb zin
want ik weet wat ik wil
en ik wil em erin
lekker chillen
je weet toch hey
maar wie ben jij

mijn naam is jeffrey maar voor jou ben ik niet vrij

yo ik dacht dat alle manne wille
je doet wel stoer
maar ik zie je checkt men bille

hehe son hey wat is dit voor lauwe grijn
want ik maak zelfs die moves als ik wil met een mijn

yo dat is oldschool kil
de tijden zijn veranderd

en ik weet dat jij wil
want je broek die is opstandig

huh je doet handig met je lauwe moves
maar je bent niet echt mijn type
dus zeg ik toedeloe

je disst me

wat dacht je

ik dacht een goeie beurt

jij denkt dat je doet maar ik zeg je opkeplurt

van nep gast yo
ik ga wel naar de kroeg
voor het natje van dit smatje ben jij niet mans genoeg

je bent een dame die zeurt

maar ik wil gewoon een beurt





je bent een sma zonder kont
maar je bil die is niet rond

zonder kont

zonder kont

hou je mond


je bent een sma en doet lauw

wil je dan geen pussy mauw

pussy mauw

koppie crauw

deze sma is lauw


je bent een hamer zonder klap

en je weet ik maak geen grap
zeug me nat

tikkeltje dat

val van de trap

wat is dat nou sma
opkeplurt voor men neus
je rok emtaki
ben jij nou serieus

ajaj ik ben een skattie
net als katootje
van die blote mak
maar je krijgt geen cadeautje

te lauw

je weet toch

een vrouw

is heet toch

die sma's die neme over

ik ben een range rover
je weet ik betover

haaah je bent een heks

en jouw 7 cm sowieso geen **

je ben een dame die zeurt

en ik moet nu echt een beurt




neem me

je bent een sma zonder kont
en je bil die is niet rond

zonder kont

zonder kont

hou je mond


je bent een sma en doet lauw

wil je dan geen pussy mauw

pussy mauw

zuig me lauw

jij bent lauw hey jij bent lauw

miauw miauw

je bent een hamer zonder klap

en je weet ik maak geen grap

zuig me nat
zuig me nat


tikkeltje dat

val van de trap

je ben een dame die zeurt

en ik wil nu echt een beurt





je bent een sma zonder kont
en je bil die is niet rond

zonder kont

zonder kont

hou je mond

je bent een sma en doet lauw

pussy pussy pussy mauw

ga nou gauw

neem me nou



wat is dat

hey laat me je voele

hey matisse


kom me helpen deze sma is echt lauw

kalm nou bonito



laat me shit met rust jonge

je hebt strakke bille hoor

it's hillfiger je weet nog





help me
help hey iemand
kom me helpen
deze sma hey blijf van me af hoor
hey shit

Samhain (Inkubus Sukkubus)

From the west comes old Death
A-riding on the storm
With hungry eyes for funeral fires
To burn till the morrow's dawn
For tis the night, here comes the dead
Unbound from the Underworld
And the children dress as the babes of Hell
All the boys and all the girls

And the fires shall burn
And the wheel of life shall turn
And the dead come back home on Samhain
And in the night sky on the lunar light they fly
And the dead come back home on Samhain

At the Sabbat high on the funeral hill
Wait the witches at the feast
For the first winter's day
The first winter's sun
A-rising in the east
For Death has come for the summertime
And to take the leaves of spring
Hecate, Nemesis, Dark Mother take us in


Velos (Anna Vissi)

Autes tis meres ola niotho allazoun siga siga
ke esi stadiaka apomakrinese
peitho ton eauto mou pos eimai poli kala
i adiaforia sou de me aggizei pia
ki olo esthanome...

pos to telos einai ena velos
tin kardia mou tin tripa
ke 'go monaxi sti gonia
ola miazoun kria
me sena makria

Milao me anthropous pou de logariaza
i ores mou den pernane pia
autes tis meres to xrono mou gemizo me pragmata
pragmata askopa den pao pouthena



Mp3, Music, Download, Lyrics, Concerts, Tickets, Live, Video, DVD, Free, Dicography, Mpeg, Buy, Song, Band, Artist, Album, Tracks, Collection, Archive, Events, Search, CD