CHANT I

CHORUS, CORYPHAEUS, CHAOS, EROS, TARTARUS, GAEA, NYX

(With solemn voice, the narrator begins to recount amidst a misty and opaque light)

CHORUS:

In the beginning, CHAOS reigned.

 Its darkness was its guise, an abyss lacking light.

 Suddenly, an immobile and silent glow vibrated, giving birth to MUSIC and AFFECTION.

 MUSIC dictated the rhythm, and this did make of NOTHING an EVERYTHING.

(His voice becomes softer and more extended)

 From EVERYTHING appeared the bridal chamber of stars, the crucible of the planets.

 From doubt was born the unreason, which endowed with sense the acts of love.

 Love emerged from CHAOS, displaying a dazzling face, more radiant than the suns.

 Upon his back, a collection of songs gave life to a pair of wings.

CORYPHAEUS:

 However, DARKNESS remains an opaque energy; in contrast, EVERYTHING is a flaming, diaphanous, and imperious energy. For an instant, SILENCE gags existence.

 Later, the absence of sound breaks for an interval the wavering DARKNESS to the delight of a luminous symphony. Meanwhile, CHAOS expresses itself amidst the planetary webs:

CHAOS:

(Moved, the chaotic energy emits a deep and low hum that articulates the first name: EROS. This hum extends indefinitely in words full of admiration and pride for what had emerged from itself)

—Oh, gifts of profound love! Gift of strange passion! I do not understand, but I love ye! Continue ye in that eternal dance, beautiful hummingbird of space, and continue ye gracefully stirring the glow of your wings. Radiant plumage of voluptuous lunar emanation! Ye have shed ineffably essential tears that have filled the universe. Therefore, ye offer the best and most delicious of your passionate love.

—EROS, winged and flowering moon, ye are a passion that crackles!

—Oh, deiform of erratic movement! Cool ye, for before this passion, EVERYTHING, NOTHING, and I have not reacted in unison with your first heartbeat, though we are one and three at the same time.

CHORUS:

 And in the comings and goings, the mark of time was still unseen. At that moment, both the uncreated beings as well as the created beings struggled to find the just way to delimit history.

(The narrator’s voice turns from a solemn respect to a solemn fear)

 The need for a calendar also was heard by the hurried ear of a being of demon-possessed hatred, which lacked neither understanding nor refinement. He raises his voice from the depths: it is the regal lord of TARTARUS, the god of the underworld, whose creatures of the abyss—of protruding eyes, burning orbits, pestilent hump, and skin red as blood—are his divine handiwork. As he approached his peers, the flapping of his wings emitted a myriad of laments.

TARTARUS:

—Time, an interesting subject—he spoke with a hissing voice—. My ideas could be of utility. I delight in recording the facts; above all, those of blood.

EROS:

—Of what use is that to us?

TARTARUS:

—Of much, my dear smiling one. The record of facts can serve in the establishment of a chronology. That which is murdered is not forgotten—he emits a gruesome laugh—. If it interests ye, I continue.

CHORUS:

 GAEA could not dissimulate the disgust and was about to stop him. TARTARUS flies around EROS and GAEA in an intimidating form. He unsheaths a dull dagger with which he affirms to materialize his art. As he speaks, he moves his knife as if directing a melody of blood.

 The fury masters EROS. The color of his aura turns into chaotic impatience for tearing off the wounded wing of the god of darkness. Realizing that vile trap, GAEA separates them and ends by breaking the dark wing.

TARTARUS:

(The dark king enjoys the pain and the action that carries EROS to his terrain)

—Continue, mighty EROS, canst thou feel it? What delight!—He says it enjoying the pain—. Behold my tears: more than pain, it is satisfaction.

CHORUS:

 Wounded, the monarch, exercises his dominion and orders NYX, summoned from the shadows, the worst of the punishments against the love of the divine. Thus, the organization of time was indefinitely obviated.

CHANT I

CHORUS, CORYPHAEUS, CHAOS, EROS, TARTARUS, GAEA, NYX

(With solemn voice, the narrator begins to recount amidst a misty and opaque light)

CHORUS:

In the beginning, CHAOS reigned.

 Its darkness was its guise, an abyss lacking light.

 Suddenly, an immobile and silent glow vibrated, giving birth to MUSIC and AFFECTION.

 MUSIC dictated the rhythm, and this did make of NOTHING an EVERYTHING.

(His voice becomes softer and more extended)

 From EVERYTHING appeared the bridal chamber of stars, the crucible of the planets.

 From doubt was born the unreason, which endowed with sense the acts of love.

 Love emerged from CHAOS, displaying a dazzling face, more radiant than the suns.

 Upon his back, a collection of songs gave life to a pair of wings.

CORYPHAEUS:

 However, DARKNESS remains an opaque energy; in contrast, EVERYTHING is a flaming, diaphanous, and imperious energy. For an instant, SILENCE gags existence.

 Later, the absence of sound breaks for an interval the wavering DARKNESS to the delight of a luminous symphony. Meanwhile, CHAOS expresses itself amidst the planetary webs:

CHAOS:

(Moved, the chaotic energy emits a deep and low hum that articulates the first name: EROS. This hum extends indefinitely in words full of admiration and pride for what had emerged from itself)

—Oh, gifts of profound love! Gift of strange passion! I do not understand, but I love ye! Continue ye in that eternal dance, beautiful hummingbird of space, and continue ye gracefully stirring the glow of your wings. Radiant plumage of voluptuous lunar emanation! Ye have shed ineffably essential tears that have filled the universe. Therefore, ye offer the best and most delicious of your passionate love.

—EROS, winged and flowering moon, ye are a passion that crackles!

—Oh, deiform of erratic movement! Cool ye, for before this passion, EVERYTHING, NOTHING, and I have not reacted in unison with your first heartbeat, though we are one and three at the same time.

CHORUS:

 And in the comings and goings, the mark of time was still unseen. At that moment, both the uncreated beings as well as the created beings struggled to find the just way to delimit history.

(The narrator’s voice turns from a solemn respect to a solemn fear)

 The need for a calendar also was heard by the hurried ear of a being of demon-possessed hatred, which lacked neither understanding nor refinement. He raises his voice from the depths: it is the regal lord of TARTARUS, the god of the underworld, whose creatures of the abyss—of protruding eyes, burning orbits, pestilent hump, and skin red as blood—are his divine handiwork. As he approached his peers, the flapping of his wings emitted a myriad of laments.

TARTARUS:

—Time, an interesting subject—he spoke with a hissing voice—. My ideas could be of utility. I delight in recording the facts; above all, those of blood.

EROS:

—Of what use is that to us?

TARTARUS:

—Of much, my dear smiling one. The record of facts can serve in the establishment of a chronology. That which is murdered is not forgotten—he emits a gruesome laugh—. If it interests ye, I continue.

CHORUS:

 GAEA could not dissimulate the disgust and was about to stop him. TARTARUS flies around EROS and GAEA in an intimidating form. He unsheaths a dull dagger with which he affirms to materialize his art. As he speaks, he moves his knife as if directing a melody of blood.

 The fury masters EROS. The color of his aura turns into chaotic impatience for tearing off the wounded wing of the god of darkness. Realizing that vile trap, GAEA separates them and ends by breaking the dark wing.

TARTARUS:

(The dark king enjoys the pain and the action that carries EROS to his terrain)

—Continue, mighty EROS, canst thou feel it? What delight!—He says it enjoying the pain—. Behold my tears: more than pain, it is satisfaction.

CHORUS:

 Wounded, the monarch, exercises his dominion and orders NYX, summoned from the shadows, the worst of the punishments against the love of the divine. Thus, the organization of time was indefinitely obviated.