Luyện nghe bài hát The Twisted Nails Of Faith

{Mirror, mirror on the
Shouldest not grave pleasures be my
For if I shall see thy be done
me the witchcraft of thy tongue}

Three Moon dials froze in the of six
As another soul passed to the grasping
Clutching their trinket
Bats blew from in a dissonant surge
Omens of corruption from within the
A fetid, dank oasis still clung to rebirth

Alone as a stone cold
The and its keep
Like dominion rose
A widow to the peaks
Wherein the Countess
Limbs from the kill

Bathed in white and like the night
Alive and young and
Was it the cry of a
That the silver thread of enchanted thoughts?
Of her as a mere reflection
As the Moon's in narrow caught
opened like dark eyelids on
The sigh of the that the wind fell upon

a siren weaving song
From the of choirs choking
Where the dead

To the and her channel arts
She swept from towers at the hour of Mars
a stars in woven sky latticed by scars
To unbind knotted reins that kept in canter,
on melancholy, fleet to sanctuary there
In nether glades tethered where onyx idols

Was it the of the mist
That peopled the air with the of absinthe?
Lost begging resurrection
From gods upon their plinths
Whose epitaphs of re-ascending to win
Remission from through a holocaust of sin

In a hilted in invective rectums
signs and seals, the Sorceress prayed
To death, to rend the veil
That ancient ones might again

As shadows
The fell to masturbating with her dagger
As the gabbled spells
heavy roses all the way to Hell
As sudden thunder grew
two pincered worlds
Exuding bane, something
With the stench of graves
To clandestines
Who shrank from glimpsing
That the growls of mating ghouls

Resplendent, in
Natal trophies from bellies of desanctified nuns
A demon, bewigged, in scum
Prowled their circle entry to run
An arctic tongue upon her
Where rubies smeared to thighs
Glittered like a in the purse of a whore
Receiving sole communion from the of Christ

{If blood is what thou craves, fiend
I will yield this witch to
If thou wouldst draw a for me
O'er lengthening of age and grief}

As the slavered foetid vows
And bore his away
In talons to perpetrate
The nausea of rape
The Sorceress screaming in his
Spat a final to stain
The Countess the promise
That her lord at war would be cruelly
And she rot alone, insane

On the nails of faith
...