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作曲 : Matthew Philip Cerami |
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Act I. |
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The Gravedigger’s shovel hits the dirt. |
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The tip of his blade lingers on the surface; |
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here lies the last of the unpierced soil. |
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He begs for the strength to refuse his work, |
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to reject his function, to forfeit his design; |
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he will not dig, he will not defile. |
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Or so it goes (in his dreams); |
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And so it has gone (it has gone); |
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And so it will go (so he will dig). |
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He casts his eyes |
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towards the scorched horizon; |
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an unearthly lightning splits the sky. |
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A sick-black angel's breath |
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creeps towards the stars; |
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its ghostly fingers pull down |
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a torch of mass-produced fire. |
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And below its bitter light, |
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the Gravedigger digs the graves |
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for all mankind. |
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Or so it goes (in his dreams); |
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And so it has gone (it has gone); |
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And so it will go (so he will dig). |
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Act II. |
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He pushes his shovel into the ground. |
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Around him blare the trumpets of doom. |
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Blood runs from his hands, |
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the spade stained red; |
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self-hate made manifest; |
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to find purpose in burying the dead. |
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“Why?” he cries, “Why end this life?” |
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“Why bury innocence under an ocean of dirt?” |
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Behind him sounds a sinister song; |
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a poisonous whisper; |
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an answer from the stars. |
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He turns to face what he knows is there; |
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she who commands his work; |
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The many-armed siren; angel of history; |
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a body of smoke, floating above the ground. |
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“You have done this!” he declares. |
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“You have made them this way! |
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You have made it so!” |
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"A grotesque ballet; |
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a play staged by choice. |
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There is no innocence here; |
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no purity among men. |
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Squandered gifts |
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turned violence to virtue; |
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tools of creation |
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repurposed for hate." |
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Act III. |
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He stands defiant in the angel's radiant flames. |
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"The illusion of choice; choices made from a cage. |
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Have you ever seen anything such as this? |
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The power, the beauty, the love? |
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Offer them another chance! |
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Free the potential buried here by my hands.” |
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"Choice within limits, |
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as vast as the cosmos. |
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Chances that outnumber the stars. |
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Devolution, instead; |
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reversion to primitive states. |
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A desire for blood, the death of compassion; |
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their well performed art: the harvest of pain." |
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"Evolutionary impulse; can you fault them? |
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Reptilian brain; can they be blamed?” |
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"There did exist the space |
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for love instead of hate; |
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for peace instead of pain; |
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for empathy and grace. |
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Some of them knew what all could know; |
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most others rejected en masse. |
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They made their choice to die; |
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they made their choice to dig." |
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Act IV. |
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The air begins to tremble; |
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the ground begins to crack. |
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The trumpets crescendo; |
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a storm through creation; |
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swaths of existence |
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ripped straight from the Earth. |
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The angel points to the abyss. |
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He hangs his head, the last grave left; |
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a choice and a chance. |
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He drops his shovel. |
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His mistakes can never be undone. |
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The Gravedigger—old, broken, tired, |
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lowers himself into the grave, |
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closes his eyes, |
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and takes his final breath. |
