02. To their memory

cinematic spoken word, orchestral hip-hop, baritone male vocals

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[Intro]
(Instrumental)

[Verse 1]
They are all dead.
Yet history has a constant need to keep them living.
Their inheritance falls into the hands of certain men.
They have died.
Knowing that light is a necessity in everyone's life while trying to secure a clear, measured sun for all.
Yet lost in the wavering darkness.
They are silent today by the laws of the earth.
Knowing that in the life of a single person, there remains a need for good times, prosperity and clarity.
They still witnessed, sprung from a nature far deeper than the individual.
The life-expanding turbulent sea of the people.
There, one day, the story of man was born.
It grew.
The story did not die.
The story gradually became history in the act of living.
I know, still, in trying to make life more meaningful, history constantly expands diagonally, seeking light.
Thinking of themselves as mere shadowy individuals, in trying to make history clear, perhaps they gave more than the emptiness of this century's empty hands.
Did they not?
On this dark autumn night, we are bewildered individuals, you, I, and them.
Stuck like dark bubbles in the sea of humanity, yet placing our own sky above all else, our own courage, dreams, the banner of desire, and our own intellect.
Thinking of them as cherished possessions to be counted, we forget everyone else.
In the effort to celebrate the well-being of all lives, in trying to magnify the sun's good name, they forgot the story of their own Melikoff sons.
The saga of man continues to be composed from those distant agonizing fragile Sumerian days until today.
In Geneva, Moscow, England, the Atlantic Charter, in the crisis of aging and caution of the UNO.
All men, across China, India, saw the Cold War.
In the condemnation of the souls sheltered, the autumn night today is filled with agitation, crowds, screams and filth.
For the chaotic lust of greedy societies, the impossible blind death falls upon the fields of yellow grain, amidst the swarms of dead locusts.
Knowing the necessity of hell's despair, they still say:
Life is deep, deeper still.
Thinking of themselves as impoverished individuals, in trying to transmit a beautiful limited life of time for everyone, they gave their lives in the act of living.
Yet through a more descriptive expansion of life, history exists in a healthier, dearer concept, in a clearer sign.
But even if that shines bright, how long will life remain lightless?
How long can it be?

[Outro]
(Instrumental)

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[Intro] (Instrumental) [Verse 1] They are all dead. Yet history has a constant need to keep them living. Their inheritance falls into the hands of certain men. They have died. Knowing that light is a necessity in everyone's life while trying to secure a clear, measured sun for all. Yet lost in the wavering darkness. They are silent today by the laws of the earth. Knowing that in the life of a single person, there remains a need for good times, prosperity and clarity. They still witnessed, sprung from a nature far deeper than the individual. The life-expanding turbulent sea of the people. There, one day, the story of man was born. It grew. The story did not die. The story gradually became history in the act of living. I know, still, in trying to make life more meaningful, history constantly expands diagonally, seeking light. Thinking of themselves as mere shadowy individuals, in trying to make history clear, perhaps they gave more than the emptiness of this century's empty hands. Did they not? On this dark autumn night, we are bewildered individuals, you, I, and them. Stuck like dark bubbles in the sea of humanity, yet placing our own sky above all else, our own courage, dreams, the banner of desire, and our own intellect. Thinking of them as cherished possessions to be counted, we forget everyone else. In the effort to celebrate the well-being of all lives, in trying to magnify the sun's good name, they forgot the story of their own Melikoff sons. The saga of man continues to be composed from those distant agonizing fragile Sumerian days until today. In Geneva, Moscow, England, the Atlantic Charter, in the crisis of aging and caution of the UNO. All men, across China, India, saw the Cold War. In the condemnation of the souls sheltered, the autumn night today is filled with agitation, crowds, screams and filth. For the chaotic lust of greedy societies, the impossible blind death falls upon the fields of yellow grain, amidst the swarms of dead locusts. Knowing the necessity of hell's despair, they still say: Life is deep, deeper still. Thinking of themselves as impoverished individuals, in trying to transmit a beautiful limited life of time for everyone, they gave their lives in the act of living. Yet through a more descriptive expansion of life, history exists in a healthier, dearer concept, in a clearer sign. But even if that shines bright, how long will life remain lightless? How long can it be? [Outro] (Instrumental)

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