Inter Arma The Atavist S Meridian Lyrics

Regale us once more
With the tales you used to chronicle,
When we were but callow
And all was new,

Of age old myths
Both formidable and sublime,

Of gallant feats
That gripped our fledgling minds,

Of a spirited people
And their bucolic wisdoms,

From the land in which you grew,
From the land in which you pine.

An atavist you've always been.

A pastoral dream
Swells in your soul,
Evoking the spirit
Of soil left behind.

A yearning profound
Captivates the senses,
Flooding your heart
With lucid recollections

Of burning days
Tending to vine and herd,
Of blackest nights
Gazing at the heavens.

Cry out for the hills
And their ancestral paths.
Weep in remembrance
Of those so revered.

The mortal hours are waning.
Return to her.

Drink from her soundless waters
If you truly wish to sing.
Ascend her sun-gilded peaks
If you truly wish to climb.
And when her winds come to reap your earthly vessel,
Only then will you truly know you have lived.

Return to her.

An atavist you've always been.