Quotes about relics, page 23

No More Time

========
Look around this place and see just what is happening
Tomorrow we will suffer for the way that we have been
Its our own lives we're shortening
While everyone pretends that there is nothing to explain
Poisons & neglected relics out live us & always will be
Justified by what we gain
No more time
Mans greed corrupt & unconcerned
No more time look around you will we ever learn
As bought time ticks away we must think carefully and choose
Forget about our future or learn to live with limitations
Knowing what we've got to lose
So many things to work for many more to work against
Everything disposable resources unreplacable
All profits at our world expense
No more time
Mans greed corrupt & unconcerned
No more time look around you will we ever learn
Mass produced solutions idealistic luxury

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song performed by Xentrix
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No More Time

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song performed by Xentrix
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Pre-Ignition

Hey you
Tell me, what's your call name
Closed negative display
Engaged on section three
The acrid factories
You
Putrid perfect product
Proper platinum parts
Proficient prototypes
Steadily spew from these pipes
Are you
Generated by waste
Arid quarry displaced
Environmental squeeze
Aluminum disease
You
Conscious of origin
Intent is in the wind
Atmosphere infected
Descendants defected

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song performed by Voivod
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A Death in the Bush

The hut was built of bark and shrunken slabs,
That wore the marks of many rains, and showed
Dry flaws wherein had crept and nestled rot.
Moreover, round the bases of the bark
Were left the tracks of flying forest fires,
As you may see them on the lower bole
Of every elder of the native woods.

For, ere the early settlers came and stocked
These wilds with sheep and kine, the grasses grew
So that they took the passing pilgrim in
And whelmed him, like a running sea, from sight.

And therefore, through the fiercer summer months,
While all the swamps were rotten; while the flats
Were baked and broken; when the clayey rifts
Yawned wide, half-choked with drifted herbage past,
Spontaneous flames would burst from thence and race
Across the prairies all day long.

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poem by Henry Kendall
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Beach House On The Moon

By: jimmy buffett
Camerons getting logical
A vulcan in disguise
The mysteries of the night
Are putting sparkles in his eyes
Hes looking for sound reasoning
But the best that I can do
Is this transcendental story
That Ill pass along to you
Pass the falls they call victoria
Down the river named the nile
Drifts a tiny little handmade boat
Its shaped just like a smile
And steered by a magician
With the knowledge that he needs
To keep him on his destined course
Pass the crocodiles and reeds
Hes the admiral of the ocean
The lone eagle in the sky
He gave me my first sextant

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song performed by Jimmy Buffett
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The Widow Of Crescentius : Part I.

'Midst Tivoli's luxuriant glades,
Bright-foaming falls, and olive shades,
Where dwelt, in days departed long,
The sons of battle and of song,
No tree, no shrub its foliage rears,
But o'er the wrecks of other years,
Temples and domes, which long have been
The soil of that enchanted scene.

There the wild fig-tree and the vine
O'er Hadrian's mouldering villa twine;
The cypress, in funeral grace,
Usurps the vanished column's place;
O'er fallen shrine and ruined frieze
The wall-flower rustles in the breeze;
Acanthus-leaves the marble hide
They once adorned in sculptured pride;
And nature hath resumed her throne
O'er the vast works of ages flown.

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poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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Script For A Jesters Tear

(derek disck/steve rothery/ pete trewavas/ micheal pointer/mark kelly)
So here I am once more
In the playground of the broken hearts
One more experience, one more entry in a diary, self-penned
Yet another emotional suicide
Overdosed on sentiment and pride
Too late to say I love you
Too late to restage the play
Abandoning the relics in my playground of yesterday
Im losing on the swings
Im losing on the roundabouts
Im losing on the swings
Im losing on the roundabouts
Too much, too soon, too far to go, too late to play
The game is over, the game is over
So here I am once more
In the playground of the broken hearts
Im losing on the swings
Im losing on the roundabouts
The game is over

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song performed by Marillion
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Fragments Of An Unfinished Drama

Scene.--Before the Cavern of the Indian Enchantress.

The Enchantress comes forth.

Enchantress.
He came like a dream in the dawn of life,
He fled like a shadow before its noon;
He is gone, and my peace is turned to strife,
And I wander and wane like the weary moon.
O, sweet Echo, wake,
And for my sake
Make answer the while my heart shall break!

But my heart has a music which Echo's lips,
Though tender and true, yet can answer not,
And the shadow that moves in the soul's eclipse
Can return not the kiss by his now forgot;
Sweet lips! he who hath
On my desolate path

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poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley
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Queen Mab: Part VII.

Spirit
'I was an infant when my mother went
To see an atheist burned. She took me there.
The dark-robed priests were met around the pile;
The multitude was gazing silently;
And as the culprit passed with dauntless mien,
Tempered disdain in his unaltering eye,
Mixed with a quiet smile, shone calmly forth;
The thirsty fire crept round his manly limbs;
His resolute eyes were scorched to blindness soon;
His death-pang rent my heart! the insensate mob
Uttered a cry of triumph, and I wept.
'Weep not, child!' cried my mother, 'for that man
Has said, There is no God.''

FAIRY
'There is no God!
Nature confirms the faith his death-groan sealed.
Let heaven and earth, let man's revolving race,
His ceaseless generations, tell their tale;

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poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley
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Alaric at Rome

Admire, exult, despise, laugh, weep, for here
There is such matter for all feeling.
Childe Harold.

Unwelcome shroud of the forgotten dead,
Oblivion’s dreary fountain, where art thou:
Why speed’st thou not thy deathlike wave to shed
O’er humbled pride, and self-reproaching woe:
Or time’s stern hand, why blots it not away
The saddening tale that tells of sorrow and decay?

There are, whose glory passeth not away—
Even in the grave their fragrance cannot fade:
Others there are as deathless full as they,
Who for themselves a monument have made
By their own cringes—a lesson to all eyes—

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poem by Matthew Arnold (1840)
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