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On this night of a depressive autumn |
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Under branches of these old trees |
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On this hour thy sign |
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I glorify |
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Black flame of |
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Satan in my heart |
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Fog is rising from the murky waters |
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Carrying the stench of the swamp |
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An owl is hooting, sounding afar |
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As melancholy takes a grip |
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I drink the blood of a virgin child |
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From an old golden flask |
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In my mind the |
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Countess of |
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Cachtice And the memory of terror she spread |
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Bitter words utter from my lips |
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Incantations of reincarnation |
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With the blood thy sign |
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I glorify |
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Waking instincts of a wolf |
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I am finding strength in the hate |
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Misanthropic burning wounds |
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As much as |
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I hate the human pigs |
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So I hate the flesh of my own |
