04 - Iron Confessional | Saints on Fire скачать в хорошем качестве

04 - Iron Confessional | Saints on Fire

Lyrics: The dawn is ridden on a rusted sled, Sparks in the wake write what I never said. Factory sirens howl in B-minor grace, Smelters of silence melt my face. Every window grows a cataract screen, I held a memory, slick and clean, But Your last remark still stuck between. Iron confessional, door half-closed, Admissions rust where the river froze. Speak the flaw into the grate, Let the slag obliterate. Iron confessional, cold and wide, Consume every alibi. When the hinge begins to scream, Wake me from the metallurgic dream. I trace a vein where the steel line runs, A whisper of water 'fore the rust begun. Now the pulse pounds out on a rivet line, Keeping only grim factory time. Smokestack judges cough their decree, Guilt descends in a slow marquee. The skyline kneels like a broken rack, Your fingerprint etched in the tarmac black. Iron confessional, door half-closed, Admissions rust where the river froze. Speak the flaw into the grate, Let the slag obliterate. Iron confessional, cold and wide, Consume every alibi. When the hinge begins to scream, Wake me from the metallurgic dream. The ledger is cast in molten slag, Not grace, but gravity pulls the tag. What is the purity You seek, my soul? No bell, no book, but the furnace's slow scroll. Iron confessional, alkaline, not clean, I kiss the rust to learn what it means. Iron confessional, door half-closed, Admissions rust where the river froze. Iron confessional, cold and wide, Consume every alibi. And we rust, and we rust, Till the frame combusts. Iron confessional, overcast, Let the whole structure collapse at last. The rivet line keeps pounding... The silence is the thickest sound. And the hinge still screams. -------------------------------------------------------------- "Iron Confessional" serves as a stark, unforgiving spiritual inventory set against a brutal, industrialized backdrop. The lyrics craft a powerful metaphor where confession is a violent, chemical process; the self is brought before a "Smokestack judge" and a furnace that demands obliteration, not absolution. The track explores how memory and guilt become fused with the environment—etched into "tarmac black," measured by "grim factory time," and consumed by the "slag." It is a chilling journey through a landscape where seeking purity means kissing the rust, culminating not in grace but in the structural collapse of the entire penitential system, underscored by the relentless, screaming hinge and the pounding "rivet line." -------------------------------------------------------------- #GothicRock #IndustrialMusic #PostPunk #Darkwave #Noctomortus #AIMusic #AIband #MelodicGoth #ConceptAlbum #DarkMusic #FullAlbum #NewMusic2025 #SaintsOnFire