Fall of Efrafa - Inle (Full Album)





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Published on Jun 22, 2013

Band : Fall of Efrafa
Album : Inlé
released 20 August 2009

1. Simulacrum 00:00
2. Fu Inle 06:01
3. Republic Of Heaven 16:30
4. The Burial 31:00
5. Woundwort 42:48
6. The Sky Suspended 59:30
7. Warren Of Snares 01:02:09


Fu Inle

My brother be,
calm amongst withered grain.
Come join me,
from life's ebb we shall refrain.
Your failing eyes half blindly
stare and glimpse this fevered face,
You marked this earth with calloused hands,
broke bread amongst your kin.
Another haggard conquered pawn,
a discarded volunteer.
A husk with an idea of life,
with eyes burning like fire,
Cast aside these earthly woes,
you wove this tapestry of battles.
I'll pay you pittance for your days,
yet loosen all your shackles.
I am the seer in the dark,
the vagabond of yore,
I am the sum of all your parts,
and proprietor of all.
A miasma,
the conclusion,
blackmonger of Inlé,
Synapses fray,
my form now vivid,
as torpor sets and blood grows tepid.
With every ounce of flesh now offered,
I hold your corpse within my coffers.
Knitted cells now split asunder,
stand alongside me brother.
Take your place amongst my Owsla,
we march at dawn now and forever.
Cross your palms and acquiesce,
take a bow as they ascend.
Scent these grounds with your presence,
ring the change of days now done.

Republic Of Heaven

We wane in remembrance,
Drained by our scorn.
The flocks of the patriarch throttled,
We gasp with epiphany,
Perception unmasked.
Ranks of black muslin litter out path.
Empyrian empties,
On our woeful malaise,
Engulfs and entwines our impious parade.
These are the embers,
The fetid ideal,
The end of our chastity,
Allow us to feel.
Nerves remain tender,
To touch makes us cry.
We see through these windows now become eyes.
Our burden is heavy,
As we ascend.
Like blemished flesh,
The earth seems to rent.
Pustules of faces,
Mouths like crevasse,
Our weathered coherence lost to morass.
Our debts are paid to this epoch,
No remorse.
The king is dead!
The king is dead!
We bound his face!
Cut off his head!
We spit at thee,
We curse at thee,
The king is dead!
Brothers and sisters,
The king is dead!
Cut him down,
Flay his skin,
Our god is dead!
Lend me your ears,
We slayed this demagogue,
Dragged it to its knees.
We cut all the sycophants,
Deafened their call,
We gave back the willing to better us all.
We will not go quiet,
We will not be restrained,
We will not be slaves to an impotent regieme.
Mark this in remembrance,
The turning of tides.
Our nascent republic,
Born of (his) demise.
The nativity!
Our elegy!
To this reform!

Warren Of Snares

We can account for the scars in our sides,
yet we are not privy to the thoughts that we discard.
Those who would break us,
nurture our despair.
But still we cherish those who we revile.
We take this battle in our fortitude,
the war of will yet to be resolved.

We broke the font from which we sup,
bit hard upon the nape of our chaste and drew blood.
Take refuge in our commune,
staccato souls.
Scrawled identities,
captives of our consecration.

Is this our dowry,
the sorrow of our loss?
Do we inflict our young with the horrors of our past?
We use these imperfections as markers,
vestige points.
We have so much to gain,
so little left to loose.
Lay bare this soil,
a marred ambit,
borders bound by slick hraka.
Towers of salt carve out tracks,
cleaved in two by careless hands.
The word is rife,
the harbinger,
it clings to us this Efrafa.
Lendri and Yonil,
it rises like vomit within us all.

The weakening words spread out in ares,
the urge to flee,
cowardice engulfs.
Our hands are raised in unison.
Brandished tools,
branded skin.
Cut away,
like so much meat,
we forged new scars against ill repute,
we hold on tight to one another.
I am legion for we are many.


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