| Song | The Inmost Night |
| Artist | Current 93 |
| Album | All The Pretty Little Horses (The Inmost Light) |
| 作词 : Tibet | |
| And i drown a little more every day | |
| The wind blows so slowly now | |
| The trees are dry dead | |
| Walls to me they cannot hold back the storm any longer | |
| It will break around us first | |
| If there's a god | |
| If there's a god | |
| When i stand there at the piled bloodcamp | |
| Again i flick open the inner eye | |
| If you too open your eyes you shall see | |
| The entire sky filled with weeping angels | |
| The entire heaven filled with weeping angels | |
| And the central sun and sum of all | |
| God too weeping | |
| We shall be judged | |
| So anyway so your garden is most full green | |
| And the many birds alight on its budding branches | |
| And anyway the lambs gambol | |
| And the children sing yours perhaps | |
| Or mine god | |
| And anyway | |
| So anyway we fall beneath the waves | |
| And hope to be remembered anyway | |
| Anyway the bluebirds wait over the white cliffs of Dover | |
| So anyway they to fall | |
| The grass dies the moss goes the chalk chips away | |
| Then below that the rocks grain away | |
| This is the sound of the earth dying so nothing new | |
| So anyway you may wait under a tree | |
| Or at the foot of that hill | |
| Anyway |
| zuò cí : Tibet | |
| And i drown a little more every day | |
| The wind blows so slowly now | |
| The trees are dry dead | |
| Walls to me they cannot hold back the storm any longer | |
| It will break around us first | |
| If there' s a god | |
| If there' s a god | |
| When i stand there at the piled bloodcamp | |
| Again i flick open the inner eye | |
| If you too open your eyes you shall see | |
| The entire sky filled with weeping angels | |
| The entire heaven filled with weeping angels | |
| And the central sun and sum of all | |
| God too weeping | |
| We shall be judged | |
| So anyway so your garden is most full green | |
| And the many birds alight on its budding branches | |
| And anyway the lambs gambol | |
| And the children sing yours perhaps | |
| Or mine god | |
| And anyway | |
| So anyway we fall beneath the waves | |
| And hope to be remembered anyway | |
| Anyway the bluebirds wait over the white cliffs of Dover | |
| So anyway they to fall | |
| The grass dies the moss goes the chalk chips away | |
| Then below that the rocks grain away | |
| This is the sound of the earth dying so nothing new | |
| So anyway you may wait under a tree | |
| Or at the foot of that hill | |
| Anyway |