Israel (Siouxsie &Banshees Lyrics)

Little orphans in the snow
With nowhere to call a home
Start their singing
Waiting through the summertime
To thaw your hearts in wintertime
That's why they're singing

Waiting for a sign to turn blood into wine
The sweet taste in your mouth -- turned bitter in its glass
Israel... in Israel
Israel... in Israel

Shattered fragments of the past
Meet in veins on the stained glass
Like the lifeline in your palm
Red and green reflects the scene
Of a long forgotten dream
There were princes and there were kings

Now hidden in disguise -- cheap wrappings of lies
Keep your heart alive with a song from inside

Even though we're all alone
We are never on our own when we're singing

There's a man who's looking in
And he smiles a toothless grin
Because he's singing
See some people shine with glee
But their song is jealousy
Their hate is clanging -- maddening
In Israel... will they sing Happy Noel
Israel... in Israel
Israel... in Israel
In Israel will they sing Happy Noel

Once upon time Greek gods lived with more human intensity than men, and at the same time gods had powerful and qualities whose men never were able to reach.

However, Art was the only way of expression that men found to stay by gods, because words, even showing strong emotions and feelings could not exceed this world. In this way, the muses became the inspiration and messengers between both worlds.

Still about muses, they are in other panteon pleasured for offering brought by immortal men and rejoiced to see how men struggle to reach their "owner way" Olimpo.

Vermelho Intenso

Cadê a inspiração... riscada em cansado traço simétrico, ausente de emoção, energia, intensidade.

Vida, tenho vida que transborda para dentro de mim, que asfixia minha impulsividade, calor quente inconseqüente.

A vida de erros me enquadrou num canvas sem tinta, craquelado, estéril, sem luz.

A força das minhas mãos sob o pincel rompeu as cerdas da criação, espremeu a tinta seca da emoção deformando a realidade.

A vontade esta fechada no estojo de lápis e carvão, o papel já amarelado empena no folder esquecido atrás do sofá.

Estou quente e fria

Mutilaram meus dedos, arrancaram minhas asas, costuraram meus olhos.

O silêncio me reserva como covarde, abortando a espontaneidade.

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Quero saltar da garupa de Jorge e matar o dragão

VIVA! Covardes belos, inteiros, incólumes.

O Preço da coragem são as cicratizes na minha face. Não desenhei a saga, nem pintei a maldição deixada pelo dragão.

Fogo que consome dentro de mim

Fogo que ninguém apaga

Fogo que ninguém compartilha

Fogo que destrói onde piso.

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Minhas telas estão queimadas.

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