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• #235 psyho85 aktív tag

  Új Válasz 2012-08-27 17:07:17 #235

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  psyho85

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  Nem fordítok, mert kevés vagyok hozzá, mint mackósajtban a brummogás:

  Sonata Arctica - The Power of One

  ("My father's land,
  My mother's tongue
  Misleading me,
  So shamelessly
  For many years,
  I misbelieved
  The hatred is the path for me.")

  Father I have killed many angels,
  I think.
  I will now walk to the sea.
  I hope I will someday forgive me
  Please moor
  My empty boat on a pier

  I can blame for the blue blood that runs in my veins.
  But I seem to forget that we are all the same.

  In your own blaze of hate you've spawn a fear in many lives
  You've taken action thinking it was all said on the signs.
  You cannot heal the feeling burning deep inside your spine
  You now collapse, cave in revealing scabby marks of life

  Mother I've seen too much, I hate to live my life.
  Forgot every word you told me, stubborn little child, (angel of your life)
  I have to find my Eden now, the gates I left behind.
  But the pain will remain.
  No power to gain.

  Now I have time to dwell on, self-awareness, dreadful crime.
  I saw colors too bright, not knowing that I was blind.
  I slayed a man who took a chance and drank the forbidden wine.
  The map I draw reveals that I have been complete, machine, in team.

  Father I've seen too much, I hate to live my life.
  Forgot every word you told me, stubborn little child, (angel of your life)
  I have to find my Eden now, the gates I left behind.
  The pain will remain.
  No power to gain.

  Mother where's your son.
  When has this begun'
  Who has been the fool'

  No one was born to be a servant or a slave.
  Who can tell me the color of the rain'
  In the world that we live in, the things said and done
  They can well overrun
  The power of one.

  No one was born to be a servant etc.

  To leave and let die
  To give hope and take life
  Is that what you're here for'

  To think you are right
  To make sure it won't fly
  Is a making of a hate crime

  In the homes of the brave,
  In the homes of the land slaves,
  We are all the same

  I need to believe.
  There's more than the eye can see
  All colors of rainbow.

  No one was born to be a slave
  Seek the past and place the blame
  Tell me the color of the rain
  No one was born to be a master

  In the land we live, we die
  Praise the oneness, praise the lie
  To bind a web around the faker
  We will need a true
  Rainmaker

  "Children of Abel, Children of Cain
  Can live in harmony, without shame
  The keys that I grant thee, The Sacred Land
  Are dry desert sand on the palm of your hand
  Without the water, the wisdom of past
  Will run through your fingers, forgotten so fast
  Thus now when I leave you, I'm truly blind
  This blindness, this blessing, the hope of mankind..."

  Álmában nagy folyó volt, de amikor felébredt, maradt kis patak. S csak csordogált tovább, mint könny az arcon, az óriás fák alatt.

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