作词 : Tibet I remember walking in the fields around York Miserere Oh miserere I remember sitting in a small room in London Miserere And I remember thinking Miserere Miserere I was sad Miserere Miserere This was the stage of building brokengods Oh miserere Miserere This was the stage of reading the blackbooks Miserere Miserere Amd possibly I rented my soul Possibly Oh, but anyway Miserere Miserere Miserere Miserere Loss Loss And if so I ask for pardon And if not I ask for pardon, anyway I have seen this world as a great howl of pain I have seen this world as a great ocean of blood I have seen this world as the acme of suffering I have seen this world as the great disappointment I have seen this world as the great zero gape In which all our hopes flicker out Goodbye they say as they go Goodbye they cry loss flies Moonlight, you will say "And what does it matter whether God speaks to us from amongst the thorns or the flowers?" -- St. Francois de Sales, 1607 But still and still He shrieks to me "Miserere miserere miserere miserere miserere" Oh, wretched Oh miserere Moonlight, you will say Moonlight, you will say
作词 : Tibet I remember walking in the fields around York Miserere Oh miserere I remember sitting in a small room in London Miserere And I remember thinking Miserere Miserere I was sad Miserere Miserere This was the stage of building brokengods Oh miserere Miserere This was the stage of reading the blackbooks Miserere Miserere Amd possibly I rented my soul Possibly Oh, but anyway Miserere Miserere Miserere Miserere Loss Loss And if so I ask for pardon And if not I ask for pardon, anyway I have seen this world as a great howl of pain I have seen this world as a great ocean of blood I have seen this world as the acme of suffering I have seen this world as the great disappointment I have seen this world as the great zero gape In which all our hopes flicker out Goodbye they say as they go Goodbye they cry loss flies Moonlight, you will say "And what does it matter whether God speaks to us from amongst the thorns or the flowers?" -- St. Francois de Sales, 1607 But still and still He shrieks to me "Miserere miserere miserere miserere miserere" Oh, wretched Oh miserere Moonlight, you will say Moonlight, you will say
