Buccolision / The Mistaken One - Part II (Geography Is Just A Symptom) - Overmars

A l’ombre du reflet de ce miroir à angle obtus

Récolter la semence du plus beau de nos pendus

Des jeunes filles en fleurs à foison de nos rêves

De langueur et d’amour doucement sur nos lèvres

A jamais couché sous des essaims de balles

Sans la sensation supplicière de se sentir sale

L’optique par le trou pour l’iris blottit

Dévisage sa victime par un regard meurtrit

Seule et frêle aux accents exorbités et exsangues

Enivré des relents d’un indésirable étrange

en glandes exocrine aux exsudats malsains

qui le chérit tout haut et le porte en son sein

Tradução p/ Inglês: BUCCOLISION

Standing in the shadow of this obtuse-angled mirror’s reflection

Harvesting the seeds of our prettiest hangman

Young girls in the prime of life galore, in our dreams

Of languor and love, on our lips, softly

Without the torturous sensation of filthiness

Optic through the hole where the iris huddles

Stares at its victim with heartbroken eyes

Drunk with the stale smell of an undesirable strangeness

Of exocrine glands and unhealthy exudations

Which cherishes it aloud and carries it in its womb.

The Mistaken One (Geography is Just a Sympton) (part II)

I am the mistaken one, once again.

And so is the ocean.

So is this ocean I have to fight, but we’re not fighting in the same league.

All this seems so useless.

So senseless.

I won’t fight this time, tired to get insane.

Geography is just a symptom.

Five summers of a recurrent dance, on the rhythm of fear, anger and

misunderstanding stopped harassing me.

A new season for sharks.

I know most of them, most of their habits but shadows of newcomers are getting

closer.

Nevermind potential bites, I’ll keep on swimming.

A new season for a dive.

Determined to hit rock bottom, escaping waves and streams.

Consciously.

I am the mistaken one, once again, embracing the ocean.

Kissing you for a last breath.

Kissing you for a lost dream.

In the shadow of the reflection of this obtuse mirror

Collect the seed of the most beautiful of our hanged

Flower maidens galore of our dreams

Of languor and love gently on our lips

Never slept under swarms of bullets

Without the torture feeling of feeling dirty

The optic through the hole for the iris nestles

Stares at his victim with a bruised gaze

Alone and frail with bulging and bloodless accents

Intoxicated by the hints of a strange undesirable

in exocrine glands with unhealthy exudates

who cherishes him aloud and carries him in her bosom

Translation for English: BUCCOLISION

Standing in the shadow of this obtuse-angled mirror's reflection

Harvesting the seeds of our prettiest hangman

Young girls in the prime of life galore, in our dreams

Of languor and love, on our lips, softly

Without the torturous sensation of filthiness

Optic through the hole where the iris huddles

Stares at its victim with heartbroken eyes

Drunk with the stale smell of an undesirable strangeness

Of exocrine glands and unhealthy exudations

Which cherishes it aloud and carries it in its womb.

The Mistaken One (Geography is Just a Symmpton) (part II)

I am the mistaken one, once again.

And so is the ocean.

So is this ocean I have to fight, but we're not fighting in the same league.

All this seems so useless.

So senseless.

I won't fight this time, tired to get insane.

Geography is just a symptom.

Five summers of a recurrent dance, on the rhythm of fear, anger and

misunderstanding stopped harassing me.

A new season for sharks.

I know most of them, most of their clothes but shadows of newcomers are getting

closer.

Nevermind potential bites, I'll keep on swimming.

A new season for a dive.

Determined to hit rock bottom, escaping waves and streams.

Consciously.

I am the mistaken one, once again, embracing the ocean.

Kissing you for a last breath.

Kissing you for a lost dream.