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User des Monats
Feb 2026
KLEWOLAND
ÆTHERION Saga
Entdecke die erzählerische Kraft der ÆTHERION Saga zwischen Rock/Metal und cineastischem Sounddesign. Musik wie Kapitel – Geschichten wie Welten.
Song Lyrics
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On the Path of Notes
I’m sitting here, just waiting for a spark, But not a single note ignites the dark, I miss the ancient sound, its hollow mark.
The silence weighs so heavy on my mind, Without a rhythm, I am left behind, In waiting, there’s no profit I can find.
An empty bar defines the weary day, I cannot bear this mute and cold display, I feel my heavy heartbeat fade away.
The Muse is silent, leaves me on my own, Within this grey and frozen waiting-throne, When will the melody again be known?
The path of notes leads through the shifting sand, I seek out tones within a distant land, But only hold the void here in my hand.
The time slips by and everything stays still, I spin in circles against my own will, This weight of waiting is a bitter pill.
On the path of notes, the waiting is so vast, A journey where the shadows have been cast, With longing, every moment is surpassed.
I seek the harmony, both deep and wide, With lonely darkness as my only guide, Deliver me and turn this heavy tide.
The sheet of music stays so white and bare, Without a song, it’s hard to breathe the air, I crave a sea of symphonies to share.
And every fleeting moment feels like stone, I long to create something of my own, To bask within a light I’ve always known.
The strings of my own soul are pulled so tight, Banished by the waiting and the night, I yearn for a new bond to set it right.
Perhaps a light appears upon the shore, To break this silence, opening the door, So notes can keep the promise made before.
On the path of notes, the waiting is so vast, A journey where the shadows have been cast, With longing, every moment is surpassed.
I seek the harmony, both deep and wide, With lonely darkness as my only guide, Deliver me and turn this heavy tide.
This heavy lot, it grinds me to the dust, To every joyful sound, I’ve lost my trust, This waiting is a theft, cruel and unjust.
But deep inside, a tiny tone takes root, Perhaps of all my work, the finest fruit, I hear it now—a soft and silver lute.
I’m sitting here, just waiting for a spark, But not a single note ignites the dark, I miss the ancient sound, its hollow mark.
The silence weighs so heavy on my mind, Without a rhythm, I am left behind, In waiting, there’s no profit I can find.
An empty bar defines the weary day, I cannot bear this mute and cold display, I feel my heavy heartbeat fade away.
The Muse is silent, leaves me on my own, Within this grey and frozen waiting-throne, When will the melody again be known?
The path of notes leads through the shifting sand, I seek out tones within a distant land, But only hold the void here in my hand.
The time slips by and everything stays still, I spin in circles against my own will, This weight of waiting is a bitter pill.
On the path of notes, the waiting is so vast, A journey where the shadows have been cast, With longing, every moment is surpassed.
I seek the harmony, both deep and wide, With lonely darkness as my only guide, Deliver me and turn this heavy tide.
The sheet of music stays so white and bare, Without a song, it’s hard to breathe the air, I crave a sea of symphonies to share.
And every fleeting moment feels like stone, I long to create something of my own, To bask within a light I’ve always known.
The strings of my own soul are pulled so tight, Banished by the waiting and the night, I yearn for a new bond to set it right.
Perhaps a light appears upon the shore, To break this silence, opening the door, So notes can keep the promise made before.
On the path of notes, the waiting is so vast, A journey where the shadows have been cast, With longing, every moment is surpassed.
I seek the harmony, both deep and wide, With lonely darkness as my only guide, Deliver me and turn this heavy tide.
This heavy lot, it grinds me to the dust, To every joyful sound, I’ve lost my trust, This waiting is a theft, cruel and unjust.
But deep inside, a tiny tone takes root, Perhaps of all my work, the finest fruit, I hear it now—a soft and silver lute.