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The Great Old Ones
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Rue d'Auseil
This is a sound, to see the invisible
This is a partition, dictated by those who are hidden
This is a frantic race, to keep pace
This is a sound to hear the inaudible
In the dark attic, the old man plays his viol again and again
Continuing his violent trance, he bring his spirit to the top
He tries to protect, protect himself from the dark
He tries to save his skin, wrinkled like bark
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His arm numb, he sees it in his skylight
The dark vortex, he knows it's for tonight
His instrument falls to the ground
Tired, he lets himself be taken, profound
He lets himself be taken
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