I AM THE MAN WHO DOES NOT TREMBLE 💀

Описание: LYRICS:
My power is not fire. It is cold.

The cold that doesn't burn, but illuminates.

That contracts the muscle to its essence,
To the true tremor.
The weak see in winter an enemy to be fought.

I see a mirror.
In it, there is no place for the fat of ego,
For the hot vapor of vanity.
Only the sharp, cutting outline of what I am,
Of what I need to be so as not to crack.

I am a student of frost,
A disciple of the east wind.

My philosophy is written on the windowpanes
With the icy needles of absolute patience.

(Pre-Chorus - Voice becomes the wind articulating words)

And when the chaos of summer - of passions, of distractions - passes,
And the landscape of the soul is bare, white and still...
It's time to draw lines.
Marching lines in the snow.
Lines of reasoning in the silence.
Lines of pure intention in the icy air.

(Sound of a knife carving cold wood, a clean, dry scratch)
My mind is a fjord.

And my thoughts, icebergs.
Nine parts of hidden decision
For one visible part of action.

(Chorus - Voice is a contained scream, a controlled fracture in the ice)
I AM NOT THE ELDR (FIRE) THAT CONSUMES!

I AM THE ÍSS (ICE) THAT PRESERVES THE TRUE FORM!

MY ÓÐR (ECSTASY) IS THE GLACIAL CALM BEFORE THE BLOW!

MY FURY, THE RELENTLESS SLOWNESS OF THE FROST!

I DO NOT CONQUER... I PRESERVE!

I DO NOT BUILD... I... I DO NOT!

ONLY THE COLD TEACHES THE STEEL ITS SHARPNESS!

ONLY THE DARKNESS TEACHES THE EYES TO SEE!

I AM THE MAN WHO DOES NOT TREMBLE IN THE TREMOGER!

THAT IS MY GEOMETRY!

(Verse 2 - Low, tactical voice, like someone explaining a hunting plan on ice)
Hot men are easy to read.
Their desires smolder, their fears sweat.

I learned to freeze my scent.
To make my presence a void in the landscape.
A nothingness that observes.
Power lies not in being the fastest predator,
But in being the oldest patience.

The one that waits for the prey to tire of its own heat,
Of its own noise,
And come, desperate, to drink at the edge of the paralyzing lake
Of my implacable logic.

I am a hunter of silences.

My bait is the absence of error.

(Pre-Chorus - With the precision of an ice clock)
By Hvergelmir, the bubbling cauldron of origins,
Whose excess is contained by the Ginnungagap of primordial cold!
By the Serpent of Midgard, sleeping in the circular sea,
Enveloped in the restrictive embrace that prevents it from devouring everything!

I am not creative chaos.

I am the limit that gives form to chaos.

I am the riverbank.

The chalice that contains the mead.

The law that allows freedom.

(Sound of a perfectly cubic block of ice being set)

(Repeated Chorus - With layers that sound like echoes in an ice canyon)

(Bridge - Voice becomes a mathematical and ancestral incantation)
Euclid did not know this geometry.

It is traced with breaths in the air,
With the final point of the gaze,
With the straight line of accepted duty.

Acute Angle: the decision that does not hesitate. Obtuse Angle: the patience that encompasses all possibilities.
Perfect Circle: the cycle of sacrifice and renewal.
My body is a theodolite.
My soul, a compass aligned with the pole of responsibility.
I do not seek the center of the world.
I am the axis around which my world does not crumble.

(Final Chorus - Clear, cold, and metallic voice, like a blade of ice)
I AM NOT THE ELDR THAT CONSUMES!

(The sound of the freezing lake intensifies)
I AM THE ISS THAT PRESERVES... THE TRUE... FORM!

(A single crack in the ice, perfect and decisive)
MY ÓDR IS THE GLACIAL CALM...

(Total silence for 2 seconds)
BEFORE THE BLOW.

(The sound of a clenched fist striking the chest - once, dry and final)





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