| Song | 4 Hypnagogue 4 - Live |
| Artist | Current 93 |
| Album | Halo |
| 作词 : Current Ninety Three | |
| I caught a glimpse of your eyes | |
| Last night in a restless dream | |
| Awaking out of green field blue seas stars | |
| Your eyes arose like the spectres of flowers | |
| I turned out the light and clicked fast the door | |
| The book fell | |
| I had so many thoughts, so many signs | |
| I made sense of nothing at all | |
| This green dream was unreal; the crickets sing | |
| Across deserts and plains the lost feast | |
| Whose shimmering teeth are marking the passing of time | |
| A cloud falls; a bird shivers and sings, its beak stained with night | |
| Pure gold: the dark is waiting, the darkness is hungry, | |
| The deep is angry, and the telephone rings on | |
| A film screen descends, and the silent movies play | |
| Buster Keaton falls and rots, as Big Ben sings and boils | |
| On an endless swamp; the silence is treacle thick | |
| And calls us to prayer: paint God with your blood | |
| And fill haunted women with knives and kites | |
| And gauges and valves and make them weep long hyms | |
| To gaseous and clumsy mortality whilst fish descend | |
| Remember remember the burning ember | |
| Embedded in your chest: the soul watches TV | |
| And gorges itself on blood and popcorn | |
| Now that's what I call decay decline and hard times | |
| Hard times, very hard times, Mr. Lindsay | |
| Hard times and winter so cruel: you have stopped my watch | |
| At the stroke of three and call for the police | |
| But there's a time for tea and a time for expiring | |
| And the notice to quit is in the post: | |
| And you should know: your | |
| Little cow and calf is going to die |
| zuò cí : Current Ninety Three | |
| I caught a glimpse of your eyes | |
| Last night in a restless dream | |
| Awaking out of green field blue seas stars | |
| Your eyes arose like the spectres of flowers | |
| I turned out the light and clicked fast the door | |
| The book fell | |
| I had so many thoughts, so many signs | |
| I made sense of nothing at all | |
| This green dream was unreal the crickets sing | |
| Across deserts and plains the lost feast | |
| Whose shimmering teeth are marking the passing of time | |
| A cloud falls a bird shivers and sings, its beak stained with night | |
| Pure gold: the dark is waiting, the darkness is hungry, | |
| The deep is angry, and the telephone rings on | |
| A film screen descends, and the silent movies play | |
| Buster Keaton falls and rots, as Big Ben sings and boils | |
| On an endless swamp the silence is treacle thick | |
| And calls us to prayer: paint God with your blood | |
| And fill haunted women with knives and kites | |
| And gauges and valves and make them weep long hyms | |
| To gaseous and clumsy mortality whilst fish descend | |
| Remember remember the burning ember | |
| Embedded in your chest: the soul watches TV | |
| And gorges itself on blood and popcorn | |
| Now that' s what I call decay decline and hard times | |
| Hard times, very hard times, Mr. Lindsay | |
| Hard times and winter so cruel: you have stopped my watch | |
| At the stroke of three and call for the police | |
| But there' s a time for tea and a time for expiring | |
| And the notice to quit is in the post: | |
| And you should know: your | |
| Little cow and calf is going to die |