I have been returning to this every night. This is a very personal creation and it came as a surprise to me, since it is collaboration between two different acts. Nachtreich is a neo-classical act, whereas Spectral Lore is an atmospheric black metal band. The result is a deeply melancholic walk under the everlasting and undying night, filled with stars and clouds passing in front of the moon, blocking the light. The shadows are my words.
You see, my friend, no stories can be told under the dim light of the autumn night. It is, by itself, a story of being. I remember still, even if I am not of the past, nor of the future, my friendship with the dark. I was the branches of the trees, hanging over the dead times of man. I grew between stones and gravel, like the flowers of night, calling with my song the whispers of creation.
I am music as it is expressed involuntarily through the veins of my mortality. I am my own being, self-annihilating and self-creating. You may listen to the sad violin, speaking with the birds of the night, like strings of grass floating with the wind. You may even listen to the upcoming storm rising with the crushing of the cymbals, but nothing will prepare you for the uplifting melodies of the guitars. Soaring like the sea in the deep ocean and coming over you, hiding your view of the world as you knew it.
And there, into these last little moments, you become it. The keys are setting the rhythm. A piano in a fairly, moderate, middle class Victorian house. You sit alone listening to the notes flying into the air and diving into the fire. The violin comes from your right, following the steady rhythm of rain on the windows.
‘What am I?’ you think to yourself. You see the candle light flickering violently with the sudden opening of the windows. ‘Do I hold fate in my hands? And if I do, is it like a bent wooden toy that breaks, thrusting at a vision too great for its briefness.’ You exclaim as you rise with your hands opening against the uninvited wind. The curtains dancing to the fierce melodies of the guitars and you feel the tears of time burning your eyes. ’I curse you, Sun, for I know you’ll only rise, as long as you fall down again.’ You shout.
‘Is it immortality that I am seeking? The transcendence of time? There is an invisible thread that binds everything, thin and fragile.’ You whisper disappointed. ‘I must have cut it, because I hear the song of the leaves and the wind, but I cannot feel them.’
From deep inside the forest, laying its roots around your rapidly aging home, came the screams echoing into your heart. ‘Dort, auf einer dunklen Lichtung, tötet Apollo Dionysus. Doch während er weitet rein, kalt und steril bleibt, antworten die Sterne nicht mehr.’
‘The stars no longer answer.’ you repeat. And all light is now made of ghosts. Spirits that you once knew, with flesh and blood, now are distant and obsolete and with the sound of the strings rising from your burning home and the pounding of your aching heart, gushing with blood, true and vengeful, pulling you like the float of an inward spiral made by atoms of air within a moments breath, into the heart of the Earth.
‘The strings that hold my body together, now and forever will be lost in time and I shall stand here forever. I shall be the rain that dances on my hair. I shall be the fire that burns these fingers, rapidly escalating unto the canvas of my soul. I shall be nothing more than a reflection of your image as the screams subside until the next night, where I will come back again, like I did a thousand times before, with the hitting of the piano keys.’ You recite and close your eyes.
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