They've stopped burning churches and
Ramming knives into one another.

Now they visit the woods without corpse
Paint and disposable cameras,

Eating Norwegian mushrooms around
Fires, boomblasters blasting

'De Mysteriis dom Sathanas' out into
Pinetree forests.

Media turned Black Metal into "satanism".
Inspired the weak.

One scratched the back of the other as newspapers
Sold more than ever, and

Small egos acted beyond their sizes, trying and
Dying for coverage.

Sometimes I feel the remains of vikings,
Battle worn and anti-christian still, after death,

Moaning: No. It was never just for
Show.

They've stopped burning churches now.
Perform with unpainted faces.

One final
Protest.

The devil is ink on cheap paper.
Money and newspapers are barely wood.

Some say they burn like old Norwegian churches.
Others just like their music raw and real.

I am a giant.

Near blind with seeing too
Much and squinting
When speaking to
People.

Clear the flowers from the window
And light candles for me.
Light me a thousand.  
So I may find my way home,
And we finally fall into
Each other.
Then light me another.

Use clear words.
Speak my language; I'm tired from
Bending my knees to
Hear. Show me that you'll listen,
Show me that you care
Enough to really
Listen.

I am bigger than you.  
I'll keep you safe
Until forever.  

As long as you dance with me;
Work with me; play with me.  
I'm clumsy and slow, might
Break everything
Except your
Heart.  

Light me a comet of candles,
An army of angels
To show that you
Want me there.

Light them all.
I have nights
To maneuver
Through.

They sought me at night when Sirius rose
like a prince on his canine steed.
Tugging my sleeve they led me outside
like a child in parental need.
Out in the garden, the grass wet with dew
still warm beneath my feet.
They pointed at the Moon and whispered:
"He thinks it's time you meet"

The Moon turned away from the sunset and mused
at little barefoot me:
Pyjamas on with stars and suns
rubbing my eyes to see.
"You've caught my eye trough the window at night
gazing at me and my stars.
No one  else knows it yet, for you are too young,
but I know who you are"

The fairies let go of my sleeve and fled,
knowing their work was done.
The Lake of Tranquility suggested a smile
upon the face of the Moon.
"Son, let me tell you, I know it seems strange
but your life is about to begin.
A life down there on little Tellus,
with a universe to win.

"I will lend you an astral helping hand
on your road so winding and long
I'll give you fascination keen and searching
and a clever mind so strong.
For a life of difficult struggles is yours,
of endless rights and wrongs,
of painful challenges unknown to most,
yet of secrets, dreams and songs

"Why must my life contain all this pain,
why can't I just dance and sing?"
The Moon let go of it's tranquil smile
"There'll be little singing and dancing.
But you will stand in the Light of Knowledge
as undisputed king.
So be brave and clever and always remember:
You're a king, -a King, little Stephen Hawking.

A perfect end to perfect day.  
The sun has set, is on her way
To pleasure others; never stay.
We borrow every ray.

And once again the darkness
Flows, the breeze has turned a force that
Blows the day away, each creature  
Knows: An infant thunder grows.

I went to bed to catch some sleep,
But once again the skies do weep
And here, instead of slumber deep
Awake myself I keep  

To witness such magnificence,
As lightning's dance in radiance.
It draws for me omnipotence;
It awes my every sense.

So here I lie with cat on bed
Who doesn't even raise her head
When Tor throws hammer up
Ahead. Cares only that she's fed.

Such comfort I have found I find
In Nature seeming most unkind.
And nearly dizzyingly unwind
From daytime, now behind.

My eyes turn heavy to the sound
Of power unlike any found
Within the skies or on the ground.
I'm safe, there's gods around.

Hoppy demon, happy wizard
Turning men into mice.
Rendering even the humblest man
a hero in disguise.

You asked for a life
Full of beauty and music
The devil said no

There is a village in a land far away
where nobody talks and all words are saved
for books and for scrolls and lovers' sweet letters.
They all agree silently: this way is better.

Oh yes, they have music, -the wonderful kind!
That spreads like a fire from mind to mind
And poetry written but never read out
For the words within are stronger than without.

And love's in silence and beautifully true,
Lips need no movement to say 'I adore you'.
Voices are never to disturb or to pester
For in the Land of the Mute, the talking man is jester.

Eyes do the talking, and truthfully so
as lies are not possible so close to a soul.
There is a village in a land far away,
if I ever go there, there's a chance I'll stay.