TP logo

Home
| Books | Music | Events | New work | Contact & ordering

A new song, inspired by Dylan’s Tempest, written and recorded 28-30th September 2012 by John Gibbens. Hear it here.

Fall of Troy

The towers are burning
and the heroes slain,
While in the shrine,
the priestess prays in vain.
The foes are in,
the proud gates open wide,
The end is come,
the end long prophesied.
Between the hours
of midnight and of dawn
The angel’s blown
the fateful iron horn,
And beauty stripped
stands helplessly alone,
That loveliness
that’s overthrown the throne.

She weeps for fear,
she feels her limbs go cold,
Which in the firelight
glow like finest gold.
The killers come
with debts to be repaid
But her sweet smile
has proved the sharpest blade.
No rope nor chain,
no shackle nor no cuff
To tame her beauty
will be strong enough.

She’s led away
in state still like a queen
While carnage paints
the background to her scene.
The dead defiled
are trampled on with scorn,
The infants from
their mothers’ arms are torn,
The alleys and
the broadways ring with shots,
The holy things
are smashed like worthless pots.
The valleys of
the homeland of the gods
Are given to
the execution squads.

They wear their death’s head
as a badge of rank,
The record of
their conscience is a blank.
The stars are smoking
and the sky is cracked.
They’re bringing on
the old world’s final act,
And in the fact,
they find no source for tears.
They mean to rule us
for a thousand years.

She loved the prince,
the tender of his flocks.
The mountain thyme
perfumed his natty locks,
Like mountain air,
his eyes were clear and wide.
Her pining heart
was not to be denied.
In royal rooms,
the lamps were burning dim;
She laid the treasure
of herself on him.
She stole herself
away from kingly bed,
With queenly robe
her queenly pride was shed.

The towers burn,
the towers crack and sink.
From Lethe stream,
her lover’s had to drink.
Into the realm
of shades he fades away,
With flocks of ghosts
forever now he’ll stray.
The dogs are loose,
the hungry dogs of war.
By lips of clay
she will be kissed no more.

Though poets vow
her fame shall never sleep,
All for her sake,
the town’s a wasted heap.
The babes in arms,
the old without a home,
Just refugees,
with all the roads to roam.


Words and music ©2012 Gibbens/Weston
PS. Actually the lyric's a love-child of Dylan’s Tempest and Goethe’s Faust.