Albert Svetlov We Are No More

The cats, they know the score, they see the whole design.

They never ask for much, they draw a quiet line.

They take just what is given, neither less nor more,

And watch life’s comings, goings, from a silent door.

They do not fawn or flatter, they don’t beg or plead,

They simply watch the human and the canine breed.

And when the pain of age begins to slow their stride,

They find a place to vanish, somewhere deep inside.

They do not weep in self-pity when the end is near.

They just release a sigh, a heavy, old-world tear.

No one should ever witness weakness in their grace,

As they prepare to leave without a single trace.

Death is a private slumber, not a public show.

A thing of quiet dignity, the wise all know.

But they will wait to meet the one who called them friend,

To walk with them right to the very, very end.

To make the lonely crossing not a path of fear,

To be the steady presence when the way’s unclear.

They’ll wait a quarter century, or even more,

For time has lost its meaning on that distant shore…

On the other side…

And on the rainbow’s other side, they stretch and wake,

And all the ancient stiffness from their bones they shake.

They sharpen eager claws on some celestial tree,

And play a game of tag with an old man with a key.

He grumbles, points towards a bright and massive gate,

Where some will choose to walk and leave behind their fate.

But they will wait to meet the one who called them friend,

To walk with them right to the very, very end.

To make the lonely crossing not a path of fear,

To be the steady presence when the way’s unclear.

They’ll wait a quarter century, or even more,

For time has lost its meaning on that distant shore…

On the other side…

On the other side of the rainbow…

Time does not exist.

There is no hour, no year, no history to persist.

There’s only just a moment…

A single, endless, now…

Yes… They will be waiting for us on the other side of the rainbow…

Prompt for SUNO AI

A melancholic and philosophical blues-rock ballad, The vocal is a clear, dry, calm baritone delivered in a speak-sing, storytelling manner, The instrumental core features a clean, expressive, and melodic electric guitar with a slightly gritty texture, warm Hammond organ pads providing depth, a solid bassline, and slow, steady drums, The arrangement is dynamic: verses are intimate and sparse, focusing on the narrative vocal, while the chorus swells powerfully with richer guitar chords, prominent sustaining organ, and subtle soulful backing vocals, creating a solemn emotional peak, The song includes a lyrical and melodic electric guitar solo, The outro is a serene, spoken-word section over fading instrumentation, The overall mood is wise, deeply loyal, patiently melancholic, and beautifully resigned.

The weather is unchanged…

Spring has gone missing, lost without a trace

Somewhere between October and April’s grace.

And on the eve of Easter, and the time

Of cherry blossoms in the May’s sweet prime,

A wet November snow beneath a gloomy morning sky

Breaks off the frostbitten branches, makes them lie,

Of poplars trembling in a fever, standing high.

And their unopened buds, they crunch like Donetsk glass

Beneath the heels of townsfolk, sleepy as they pass,

Who rush to catch their morning bus, who rush to mass.

The weather is unchanged…

Spring has gone missing, lost without a trace…

It crunches like Donetsk glass…

It crunches like Donetsk glass…

A thunderstorm out West…

For years we’ve heard about the gleaming, bright

Successes on the fronts, the taking of another

Forest warden’s hut, old Mykola’s hovel,

At the cost of hundreds of our Volkssturm lives.

But there’s no turning point, just wider grow

The alleys of the fallen in the graveyard’s row,

In provincial Rhine towns, emptying out slow,

Where there’s no work for anyone at all,

And so, someone has got to take the fall.

There is no turning point, just wider grow

The alleys of the fallen in the graveyard’s row.

And there’s no work for anyone at all,

And so, someone has got to take the fall.

And so, someone has got to take the fall.

The forecasters debate the cyclone’s might…

Approaching from the North and North-East way.

Again we hear the calls to pull the belts up tight,

And better not around the waist, without delay,

But right around the throat, your own, without a fight,

Since the Propaganda Ministry will still convey

Its promised promises, to slay

Inflation, corruption, and the other sworn

Adversaries of the people’s unity, well-worn.

To pull the belts up tight,

And better not around the waist,

But right around the throat, your own, without a fight.

The people’s unity!

Rain and thunderstorms throughout the coming week…

And the loneliness of one who’s stepped across the line,

When friends are buried, one by one, and you resign.

The future holds no pain, the past is no excuse

For gossip, or for empty, idle talk that’s of no use.

Just pointless, leisure chatter, over bottles of cheap wine,

In a frosted-over hostel room, a faded sign.

Nothing warms you like the whiskey’s sharp, defining heat,

And the image of a tabby cat, who used to find her seat

Each night upon the pillow’s ridge, to make it neat,

To press her saffian paws against her master’s pajamas, sweet,

And sleep so deeply, buried in that tender, old retreat.

And the loneliness of one who’s stepped across the line,

Who buries friends, whose future holds no pain.

Only whiskey saves, and the image of a cat,

Sleeping sweetly on the pajamas…

No gossip. Empty. Idle…

The weather is unchanged…

Spring has gone missing…

It crunches like Donetsk glass…

It crunches…

There is no turning point…

The alleys of the fallen…

And so, someone has got to…

…take the fall.

Prompt for SUNO AI

Dark jazz-noir cabaret, A cold, detached, spoken-word male baritone vocal delivers a weather forecast in a near-monotone, The core is a repetitive, dissonant, and melancholic piano chord progression, Accompaniment includes skittering brushed jazz drums, a deep electronic pulse, and a double bass, A tenor saxophone (or muted trumpet) is used expressively: playing sustained dissonant notes, jagged despairing lines, and distorted shrieks, The song features abrupt shifts in texture: from claustrophobic piano verses to chaotic noise sections, stripping down to a sparse, lonely bass and piano interlude, and ending in a complete musical collapse, Includes sound design: breaking glass, radio static, a distorted snippet of a cheerful tune, The mood is bleak, cynical, claustrophobic, and profoundly melancholic.

Let life just rest… for once, rest from life.

And let them catch their breath, count the losses and the strife,

Of aging, balding men with souls all torn and frayed,

Shy and awkward boys inside, whose light begins to fade.

Dreaming to start it all again, past fifty, out of date,

With hypertension and a solid belly, man, that just can’t wait

To show its deep contempt for any morning exercise or weight…

So let life rest, oh, let it rest from life itself, they plead.

And let them count the cost of every unfulfilled need.

For aging, balding men with teenage souls, displaced,

Shy and awkward boys who dream, though time cannot be erased…

To start it all again…

Don’t shatter into piercing shards the illusions of the broke,

The unshaved sorry souls who missed life’s most important turn,

The highway linking dates of birth to where the ashes burn.

Just leave some coins to bury them, the simple joy to take a stroll,

Through the nearest square, cut up by tiles, to make their evening whole,

And, cat-like, squinting secretly, to lick their chops and gaze,

At passing Jungfraus, twenty-ish, lost in their sunny haze…

So let life rest, oh, let it rest from life itself, they plead…

Let it rest…

And let them count the cost of every unfulfilled need…

Count the cost…

For youthful nymphs, these aging men simply do not exist.

Their world’s a different orbit, sealed with a dismissive twist.

They laugh with friends in cafes, chat with guys who text and scheme

For meetings that might end in sweat on sheets, a fleeting dream.

Their bodies fresh and confident, a currency they spend

On boys their age, for nights that have a clear and certain end.

While the others watch from benches, with a dull and aching sense,

Condemned to be the audience, at their own life’s expense.

They wait at home for fish soup in a bowl,

Pills for the high blood pressure, pills to calm the aching soul…

Chamomile tea to ease the bloated belly, take its toll.

And also — wife in hair curlers, and a son, or maybe daughter —

Fans of anime. At fifteen, nothing in the world is shorter

Than school and boring homework, and parental talk that’s fraught…

Japan for them is dreamland — sakura, a volcano…

In Tokyo, the streets are filled with heroes from the screen,

With huge sad eyes and love that tears right through, unseen.

The only goal the kids have got is just to run and flee,

To let life rest from life itself, and never more to see

The restless, churning adolescent souls, you see,

Wrapped up inside the worn-out carcasses of men like these…

…start it all again…

…and count the losses…

…start it all again…

…inside a worn-out carcass…

…let life rest…

Prompt for SUNO AI

Dark contemporary R&B fused with trap and dubstep, Male vocal with clear autotune, shifting between a weary, conversational trap flow and a smooth, melancholic, multi-layered R&B singing, The core is a sleek, atmospheric, and moody trap beat (808s, crisp hats, melancholic synth), The song is punctuated by sharp, sarcastic, and aggressive dubstep drops (wobbly bass, metallic sounds) at key cynical moments, Features a glitched, chaotic bridge built around a distorted anime sample and a massive dubstep breakdown, The finale features a malfunctioning, glitching beat and vocal, Includes subtle sound design (traffic, domestic sounds), The overall mood is cynically introspective, self-deprecating, sleekly modern, and darkly humorous.

L’ancien passager du « Bellerophon»,

Dans un frac couleur tabac, râpé jusqu’à la corde,

Et un tricorne poussiéreux, enfoncé sur le front,

Est assis sur un fût à essence vide, comme sur un trône.

Il toise les dunes de la côte sud, brûlantes et nues,

Où doit se jouer son dernier week-end, sa dernière issue.

…Où doit se jouer son dernier week-end, sa dernière issue…

«On ne trouve pas de gens intrépides dans ceux qui ont à perdre.»

Le roulis, le mal de mer, la maladie maudite,

Le brouillard matinal, humide, qui avale tout, le banc de sable maudit…

La compagnie des « alliés jurés» et l’éternel opposant.

Les douilles jaunes sur le sable blanc, alignées,

Comme des cierges fondus sur la neige russe, illimitée.

...Comme des cierges fondus sur la neige russe, illimitée…

«N’interrompez jamais un ennemi qui est en train de commettre une erreur.»

Les « Junkers» se déversent de la région nommée Enfer.

Une photo du Colonel Aureliano, dit-on,

Derrière les fissures glissantes, en toile d’araignée, du pare-brise du Renault fracassé…

Un camion, affaissé sur ses essieux brisés, fait pour transporter les morts

Du rivage immense vers une grande fosse commune, un même sort.

Un homme pas très grand avec une mitrailleuse, qui, haletant,

Crache une salive amère, essuie la sueur de son front

Avec un mouchoir de batiste, et vise à présent

La nuée d’acier, bourdonnante, de prédateurs venus de l’Est,

Et entre ses dents, il siffle, dans un dernier souffle: « Merde!»

Du rivage immense vers une grande fosse commune, un même sort.

«Après ma chute la fortune m’ordonnait de mourir, et l’honneur m’ordonnait de vivre.»

L’ancien passager du « Bellerophon»,

Dans un frac couleur tabac, râpé jusqu’à la corde,

Gît figé, éparpillé sur le sable, son mouvement achevé,

Tout près du fût à essence vide, sous le soleil levé,

Comme dans le tombeau de l’Hôtel des Invalides.

Et le tricorne transpercé d’une balle, près de lui, guide

Le regard vers la bande de mitrailleuse vide, dernier dessin.

…Gît figé, éparpillé sur le sable, son mouvement achevé…

«Entre les personnes qui cherchent la mort il y en a peu qui la trouvent lorsqu’elle leur serait utile.»

«Entre les personnes qui cherchent la mort il y en a peu qui la trouvent lorsqu’elle leur serait utile.»

«Entre les personnes qui cherchent la mort il y en a peu qui la trouvent lorsqu’elle leur serait utile».

Prompt for SUNO AI

Art rock, progressiv rock, ritmico, Neoclassical, Orchestral, Funeral March, French Language, Historical Epic, Tragic, Apocalyptic, A monumental and tragic piece, The music is built on slow, solemn funeral marches, deep orchestral drones, dissonant string and brass swells, and sparse, ominous percussion, The male vocals declaiming the French text with the gravitas of a fallen emperor or a tragic historian, The provided French spoken samples (Napoleonic quotes) must be used as clear, cold, archival interludes, The mood is one of imperial downfall, historical fatality, and profound, majestic sorrow, The production should feel vast, echoic, and timeless.