Epilog Lyrics


Well, not actually lyrics. This page contains the poems included with Änglagård's instrumental album Epilog. Translations are by Jonas Mellin, with assistance from Ron Chrisley.

Please send formatting or translation suggestions to Ron Chrisley (ronc@cogs.susx.ac.uk). It would be particularly nice if someone could type in the original Swedish text, formatted for HTML.


"The texts for Last Summers and The Voice were written by Rut Hillarp. The other texts were snatched from the wind."



Prologue

There is a sun
that is greater than my smile
There is a sun
that is greater than my hate
There is a sun
that is greater than my living
But there is no sun that is greater than me
extinguish me



Autumn Spell

The sun is setting slowly, like a falling leaf
of the thousand days of autumn,
against the burning horizon,
but the colours soon abandon it to
shady grey;
in whipping storm and  rotting leaves
it burns its forest to start
anew.



The Voice
By Rut Hillarp

In the dream I hear him yell.  And in this moment of distant answers I
regain the mild death, I breathe the birth of the trees.  The bells of
the heather freely deposit their secrets into my hand.  My body is the
coolness of the land and the fragile clouds of the autumn glide
through my eyes.  He yells at dawn and the voice was my mother's.  The
sea shall carry me to an embrace.



The Edge of the Forest

The living boy speaks a distorted language and the rapids of time yell loudly on their way,
the abyss closes and pictures die.  Everything has an end at the edge of the forest...
...The world beyond the edge of the forest begins where the thorn bush grabs hold of your stomach and
gives the soul no rest when the legend is created and time to think and talk dies --
no school of thought lives in hibernation.



Last Summers
By Rut Hillarp

In the immense greenery of last summers.
Thin birch trunks glimpsed as handfuls of desire.
The women bear children upon children without understanding why.
No hands could wither.  The sea calmed, the lakes sang.
The ditches were overgrown with elk grass.  The roads were brightly lit,
but not with terror.  White by their dreams.
Along the fields blue forget-me-nots.
But no one could remember us.  We were the last.



The Fullness of Yearning

I look down in the deep stream
and I see a birch leaf floating past
I believe that under the stone
is a passageway that leads to heaven


ronc@cogs.susx.ac.uk
4/21/95