The Birth of Egypt English

The Birth of Egypt English
1 Transmutation
2 Corner Talk
3 Dark
5 For the Gram
6 Doctored
7 100 Proof

About Album

Release Date
September 14, 2019

Available Lyrics

We— are the shadow dancers. We bud and we blossom in the darkness. Introvert to extrovert alike, we trap our light. We be still, but we never cease to move. We are the quiet ones. Behind our beams we sound like calm energy. We wonder—how long will we remain dormant. Slumbering— We ponder, how long will we shift mountains only stone by stone. We know we still are light. The light. The force that bid forever goodbye to the dismal dark. The hand who bound death in life. It is but mere seconds to the eye of the Great Divine until these, we molecules of illumination explode and rapture up all of our wandering flock. Their wings enormous. Together they are infinite—upon the first one’s salvation. They are not for slaughter. Nor, for the herding, but halal in submission to grand consecration. They are holy, water to the women of the cloth. They are holy water, alabaster — to the divus mothers who sat beneath the veil, who carried the pails from the wells, who climbed the steeps to bear all milk—from the first spring. The mothers who rest upon the bended knee of the willow, sown from the first heavens. When it is time— it is time. You will just know—but the fence, the fences you stand beside. The fences you stand beside. The fences you straddle.
Corner Talk
These windows—don’t have no frames. Oh, but there’s plenty of pain. These skies—don’t have no clouds. Oh, but there’s plenty of rain. I’ve watched you fall to the ground, skin your knee and rise again. I’ve witnessed you at your lowest depth, in your darkest hour bent and disconfigured. And yet, here—you stand before me in some form or fashion—in the dead of your night, whole and complete in your stature. Tell me my love, why are you weary? Why hast your soul given up on you? I mean would you cage your own spirit? Seriously — would you cage your own spirit for all the riches of tomorrow and yet, die—no—perish with no true wealth? No, now I am sure you would not. So, do not kneel today. Do not beg for fear of ascension, because it is the duty of your soul, all souls, to rise when those drums sound. So, beat. Beat I say. Ha Beat like those drums do beat. Beat as though those drums beating now. If there is war in the midst of your world, war in the midst of your spirit beat like those drums. Hear them rising in the hollow of your chest and beat on.
Your eyes detect at best, 10% of me. I, my galaxy, that which matters, the interstellar material—the rest you cannot interpret, unravel, that — this is my dark energy. The darkness eats away at me, you, us. I am still and always exploring my obscurity. Still manifesting it to make it visible, tangible. Hmm... The more I transverse the space within the heart of my galaxy, the more I probe—the more expansive my dark matter, my dark energy, my darkness becomes. This is the 10/90 rule, this is my law. That which you behold is forever is forever subject to what you cannot. As I navigate through this my hallowed space, it is as if I am blind, but I hear all that sounds, feel all that vibrates from which I see colors—decipher fictions. Out of those fictions I begin to create. Manifest. In due time, they will begin to matter. From those illusions I will begin pull that which is, was, and still, has yet to be real.
I walked a million miles, in my dreams, away from where my heart once stood still waiting on the air to return to my lungs so I could breathe. Breathe. Breathe in the tormented essences of myself I had long since expelled far far from my being. I am still her, but no longer does she define me. You know there comes a time when you just gotta say fuck it. Sorry Mama. This world is going to try to mold you, shake you, break you, make you something that you wasn’t meant to be—fit you in a box that was way too tight. And the way I look at it, you can bend, you can fold, you can break, or you could just say fuck it. That box won’t made for me, that mold didn’t fit. And that’s what I did. That’s what I do. You ain’t gotta be like me, go on ‘head be just like you baby, but know that the mold don’t fit. It ain’t for you. It’s like going to the shoe’sto and getting a new pair of shoes. You get them home and they don’t fit—do you keep them? No. I mean unless you forgot your receipt... but we not talking hypothetical. We talking like some real heavy sugar honey ice tea. So baby, if it don’t fit don’t try to make it. It just ain’t logical, it’s real ill-logical. And you see, one day you’re gonna wake up. You gon' realize that that white picket fence wasn’t made for you, because you don’t even like fences in your yard, even though they make some good neighbors. Keep the nosey ones out.
For the Gram
Measure up? That’s what they say? To what? To who? Everybody that ain’t got body like you? Eh… I’m too tall to keep coming up short. Too big to be trying to bend all small. Naw, this ain’t my kind of feed to dry. And I’m only clingy with my sisters, no room in my gardenia for weeds. Your plastic rulers ain’t got the width. The length it’s off—not enough numbers to break my binary B. Your scale can’t feel, my heart beats feathers. But your plates they clank and they clack with the tip of my toe. Holding all this love got my body feeling something like heavy. Got me floating, rotating, dancing with gravity, standing still like earth. Listen to the thump, thump, thumping, sounds like us breaking. Breaking through our hollows, finding light outside the darkness. We used to be brave. Once we were free. Then this matter grounded us. The trending waves drowning us. Look at you. Lost at sea stranded on a fluid crystal bed, on another’s manmade beach, umbrellas down, chairs folded. Curtains to changing rooms drawn, no occupancy. Look at us. Hearts vacant now. Tidal waves have leaked a hole in your sea floor. Waterfalls run downside up. Look at you, mouth dry from holding all of those karats. Back breaking from the weight of carrying all those precious stones. After the last trumpet, there will come a parade of flashes. They are consumed by our array of illuminating gems. That’s how it will end. The same as it always begins—with our love. Reunited they will say. And we will dance. We will dance. We will dance. We were never made to be alone. Never made to be alone. Look at us. Picture perfect. Look at us. Picture us. Whole.
You wanna tell me, I’m not alright. You try to tell me, I’ll never be alright We parade around in our makeshift robes of confidence. We dress ourselves in lavish garbs, adorn ourselves in all the fineries. We pretend to shine instead of simply shining due to a lack of trusting that despite how dull our shine may appear, it is perfectly our shine. It is indeed impossible to shine bright if you choose not to shine at all— and it is impossible for the world to witness your shine if all that covers your shine shines brighter and suppresses your true shine. I have learned that confidence cannot be bought, cannot be manufactured, tailored, borrowed, stolen, given or taken, but it can be suppressed. It can be subjugated. And although this world can play Hyde—trample upon our confidence, it is usually you and I who bury our confidence alive, continuously telling ourselves that the light outside ourselves is the only light that can make us illuminous. How ‘bout that... I’m gonna show you I’m alright I’m gonna show you I’m alright I’m alright I’m alright Yeah, I’m alright, yeah yeah I’m alright Yeah, I’m alright Yeah, I’m alright
100 Proof
I have been known to be too strong—for myself that is. So, what makes you believe you have even the slightest chance up against my pound-for-pound? What makes you feel as though your heat can hold one candle to my flame? humph. I don’t know what high sea got you drifting, thinking you can swim in my waves—thinking you can swim in my waves, but I’m admiral aboard this ship, el capitán at the helm, navigator at the bowsprit and most days I house cannons I don’t even want to bang with, so what makes you think you can negotiate with my waters if they’ve proven more than capable of sinking and surfacing my vessel eon after eon after eon like a tiny message in a bottle— in a miniscule bottle at that. If I wash up on shore, know I had to fight myself—battle myself, battle my own undercurrents, stitching together my own riptides. Know I committed a thousand and one suicides. A thousand and one suicides just to test one grain of these sands of time. What gave you the audacity? Whatever gave it to you— give it back.

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