Agalloch - Pale Folklore (1999)
blackened folk metal
i. the brightness and the snapping branches. fire’s icy blight against the blue dark; no whispering wolves tonight. across the taut air, the mourning wail of the woman on the hilltop-- the echoes of her sorrow harmonizing with the howling wind.
how the spine begins to stiffen; when the cold sets in like a disease, only a red horizon may break the spell. the glass panes in the window threaten to crack-- we hold the steam of our breath in as we wait for the sound, like a breaking river. one thousand ravens blacken the sky; the phantom rattles below as if drowning in her death. among the firs, the soul is loosely tied to the flesh. a bell in the distance; time slinks away beneath the gnarled roots and powder of snow. another horse has broken its leg. where is God’s fair hand among the twisted spires that were once trees?
in the immense quiet, perhaps, one could find an answer.
ii. the archways cutting through the white walls, obsidian cathedral snarling through the winter wastes. whom--beyond the veil, the piercing battlements-- sits ensconced atop the ancient throne? the towers glitter beneath the pale light of the moon. in the ebony forest beyond, the gnawing growl of the nighttime hunt. blood pouring from the fangs. what a horrible night to have, despair dripping down the ramparts,
a wet moon glistening thickly above, suspended as if against the force of its own weight dragging it down. the flint will not catch. a bell’s deep resonance echoes, rumbling deep within the stones. it calls with the voice of the enthroned; so clear a warning that even the wolves cease to howl. it sings the promise of the sawing winter winds, the blistering snows. the moonlit damp is suddenly benign in the face of the wind’s hissing spirit. beyond the facade-- no quest for tenderness. the bleakness is eternal; solitude stands as an obelisk into the night, untouchable.
4/5