The Snare of the Fowler

[00:05.26] "In our world there will be no emotions except fear, rage, triumph, and self-abasement
[00:14.74] ...there will be the intoxication of power
[00:18.83] ...Always, at every moment, there will be the thrill of victory, the sensation of trampling on an enemy who is helpless
[00:30.58] If you want a picture of the future, imagine a boot stamping on a human face--forever."

[00:39.34] Man - like earth - both flower and decay
[00:48.47] Tyrants and men of ideals feign the black-eyed children
[00:57.86] 'Till plight and injustice wakes this earth
[01:07.33] To galvanize them to sacrifice and abnegation;
[01:16.41] Ripe are the fools and the damned who have longed for a promised land
[01:25.33] In the heap of temptations, hope would mark the ruins

[01:33.01] "The tree of knowledge is not that of life."

[01:40.97] And so he grinds his own hands
[01:45.34] Where there was never justice for all
[01:49.71] There is a stain of perspective in those expiring eyes
[01:58.07] When he mines his own helm
[02:02.46] And serves for the greater glory

[02:09.05] Arm the angels
[02:11.90] Bedevilled by our lesser judgement
[02:17.23] And another man will die;
[02:20.52] It is practically what he is here for
[02:25.72] And they will fly their flags at half mast
[02:29.27] As if this would imply justice
[02:34.88] Never pitied, they will make this mistake again
[02:42.60] And again - the damned deny the ages
[02:47.45] And the greatest of ironies:
[02:52.96] Our enlightenment would rise;
[02:56.75] And with it, the vileness of man

[03:01.08] "The tree of knowledge is not that of life."

[03:09.12] And so he grinds his own hands
[03:13.28] Where there was never justice for all
[03:17.72] There is a stain of perspective in those expiring eyes
[03:26.39] When he mines his own helm
[03:30.44] And dies for the greater glory

[03:39.39] It is seldom the days in the dark
[03:43.92] When he defines his own hell
[03:49.36] But in the violent wake of the wise
[03:55.15] Where the rabid dog dies

[04:29.87] Tearing at the roots, where the rats beckon asunder

[04:53.56] "Surely he shall deliver thee from the snare of the fowler;
[05:01.00] And the noisome pestilence."

[05:18.49] But men are left disturbed, yet again

[05:46.85] It is seldom the days in the dark
[05:51.45] When he defines his own hell
[05:57.72] But in the rotted wake of the light
[06:01.48] Where the parasite dies

[06:16.58] There is no redemption arc in the record of eternal truths
[06:33.02] Just an endless sequence of cross-currents
[06:38.30] To the terminus of all paradises lost
[06:49.65]