From Nothing to Eternity

by Hyperomm

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about

This album has a conceptual component. Lyrics are presented by such classic authors as Emily Dickinson, Walt Whitman, William Ernest Henley and others. The name of the album ("From Nothing to Eternity") represents a conception which can be described as "life is short, but art is eternal".

credits

released February 1, 2017

Guitars, Vocals, Keys, Sampling, Drums sampling - Anton Trubin
Recording, Mixing, Mastering - Anton Trubin
Cover Art - Anton Trubin
Famale voice in (1) - Maria Fayershteyn
Guitar solo in (6) - Artyom Ustyantsev

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about

Hyperomm Moscow, Russia

Hyperomm is one man band. Everything is played, mixed and mastered by me at homestudio.

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Track Name: A Great Hope Fell
A great Hope fell
You heard no noise
The Ruin was within
Oh cunning wreck that told no tale
And let no Witness in

The mind was built for mighty Freight
For dread occasion planned
How often foundering at Sea
Ostensibly, on Land

A not admitting of the wound
Until it grew so wide
That all my Life had entered it
And there were troughs beside

A closing of the simple lid
That opened to the sun
Until the tender Carpenter
Perpetual nail it down

Poem by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson
Track Name: Whispers of Heavenly Death
Whispers of heavenly death, murmur'd I hear;
Labial gossip of night - sibilant chorals;
Footsteps gently ascending - mystical breezes, wafted soft and low;
Ripples of unseen rivers - tides of a current, flowing, forever flowing;
(Or is it the plashing of tears?
the measureless waters of human tears?)

I see, just see, skyward, great cloud-masses;
Mournfully, slowly they roll,
silently swelling and mixing;
With, at times, a half-dimm'd,
sadden'd, far-off star,
Appearing and disappearing.

(Some parturition, rather--some solemn, immortal birth:
On the frontiers, to eyes impenetrable,
Some Soul is passing over.)

Poem by Walt Whitman
Track Name: Invictus
Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds and shall find me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.

Poem by William Ernest Henley
Track Name: When Rising from the Bed of Death
When rising from the bed of death,
Overwhelmed with guilt and fear,
I see my Maker face to face,
O how shall I appear?

If yet, while pardon may be found,
And mercy may be sought,
My heart with inward horror shrinks,
And trembles at the thought;

When Thou, O Lord, shall stand disclosed
In majesty severe,
And sit in judgment on my soul,
O how shall I appear?

But Thou hast told the troubled mind
Who does her sins lament,
The timely tribute of her tears
Shall endless woe prevent.

Then see the sorrow of my heart,
Ere yet it be too late;
And hear my Savior’s dying groans,
To give those sorrows weight.

For never shall my soul despair
Her pardon to procure,
Who knows Thine only Son has died
To make her pardon sure.


Poem by Joseph Addison
Track Name: A Presentiment
Oh father, let us hence for hark,
A fearful murmur shakes the air.
The clouds are coming swift and dark:
What horrid shapes they wear!

A winged giant sails the sky;
Oh father, father, let us fly!
'Hush, child; it is a grateful sound,
That beating of the summer shower;

Here, where the boughs hang close around,
We'll pass a pleasant hour,
Till the fresh wind, that brings the rain,
Has swept the broad heaven clear again.'

'Nay, father, let us haste for see,
That horrid thing with horned brow,
His wings o'erhang this very tree,
He scowls upon us now;

His huge black arm is lifted high;
Oh father, father, let us fly!'
'Hush, child;' but, as the father spoke,
Downward the livid firebolt came,

Close to his ear the thunder broke,
And, blasted by the flame,
The child lay dead; while dark and still,
Swept the grim cloud along the hill.

Poem by William Cullen Bryant
Track Name: Drige
Knows he who tills this lonely field
To reap its scanty corn,
What mystic fruit his acres yield
At midnight and at morn?

In the long sunny afternoon,
The plain was full of ghosts,
I wandered up, I wandered down,
Beset by pensive hosts.

The winding Concord gleamed below,
Pouring as wide a flood
As when my brothers long ago,
Came with me to the wood.

But they are gone,— the holy ones,
Who trod with me this lonely vale,
The strong, star-bright companions
Are silent, low, and pale.

My good, my noble, in their prime,
Who made this world the feast it was,
Who learned with me the lore of time,
Who loved this dwelling-place.

They took this valley for their toy,
They played with it in every mood,
A cell for prayer, a hall for joy,
They treated nature as they would.

They colored the horizon round,
Stars flamed and faded as they bade,
All echoes hearkened for their sound,
They made the woodlands glad or mad.

I touch this flower of silken leaf
Which once our childhood knew
Its soft leaves wound me with a grief
Whose balsam never grew.

Hearken to yon pine warbler
Singing aloft in the tree;
Hearest thou, O traveller!
What he singeth to me?

Not unless God made sharp thine ear
With sorrow such as mine,
Out of that delicate lay couldst thou
The heavy dirge divine.

Go, lonely man, it saith,
They loved thee from their birth,
Their hands were pure, and pure their faith,
There are no such hearts on earth.

Ye drew one mother's milk,
One chamber held ye all;
A very tender history
Did in your childhood fall.

Ye cannot unlock your heart,
The key is gone with them;
The silent organ loudest chants
The master's requiem.

Poem by Ralph Waldo Emerson
Track Name: The Leveller
The glories of our blood and state
Are shadows, not substantial things;
There is no armour against Fate;
Death lays his icy hand on kings:
Sceptre and Crown
Must tumble down,
And in the dust be equal made
With the poor crooked scythe and spade.

Some men with swords may reap the field,
And plant fresh laurels where they kill:
But their strong nerves at last must yield;
They tame but one another still:
Early or late
They stoop to fate,
And must give up their murmuring breath
When they, pale captives, creep to death.

The garlands wither on your brow,
Then boast no more your mighty deeds!
Upon Death's purple altar now
See where the victor-victim bleeds.
Your heads must come
To the cold tomb:
Only the actions of the just
Smell sweet and blossom in their dust.

Poem by James Shirley
Track Name: No Resurrection
Friendship, when a friend meant a helping sword,
Faithfulness, when power and life were its fruits, hatred, when the hated
Held steel at your throat or had killed your children, were more than metaphors.
Life and the world were as bright as knives.

But now, if I should recall my ruins
From the grass-roots and build my body again in the heavy grave,
Twist myself naked up through the earth like a strong white worm,
Tip the great stone, gulp the white air,

And live once more after long ages
In the change of the world: I should find the old human affections hollowed.
Should I need a friend? No one will really stab me from behind,
The people in the land of the living walk weaponless.

Should I hate an enemy? The evil-doers
Are pitiable now. Or to whom be faithful? Of whom seek faith?
Who has eaten of the victor's feast and shared the fugitive silence
Of beaten men on the mountain: suffer

Resurrection to join this midge-dance
Of gutted and multiplied echoes of life in the latter sun?
Dead man, be quiet. A fool of a merchant, who'd sell good earth
And grass again to make modern flesh.

Poem by John Robinson Jeffers