Luyện nghe bài hát The Twisted Nails Of Faith

{Mirror, on the wall
Shouldest not grave pleasures be my
For if I see thy will be done
Grant me the witchcraft of thy

Three Moon froze in the shadow of six
As another soul passed to the Styx
Clutching their crucifix
Bats blew caves in a dissonant surge
Omens of corruption from within the
A fetid, dank oasis still clung to full

Alone as a stone cold
The and its keep
Like dominion rose
A to the snowy peaks
Wherein reclined the
Limbs purring from the

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

Like a weaving song
From the lilt of choirs
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,
Shod on melancholy, to sanctuary there
In glades tethered where onyx idols stared

Was it the kiss of the
That peopled the air with the of absinthe?
souls begging resurrection
From gods their forest plinths
Whose epitaphs read of to win
Remission from through a holocaust of sin

In a tongue hilted in rectums
Over signs and seals, the Sorceress
To death, to rend the veil
That ones might rise again

As shadows
The countess to masturbating with her dagger
As the witch spells
heavy roses all the way to Hell
As thunder grew harangue
Announced two worlds
Exuding bane, came
With the stench of graves
To these
Who from glimpsing horror
the growls of mating ghouls inclined

Resplendent, in
Natal trophies torn bellies of desanctified nuns
A demon, bewigged, in scum
Prowled their seeking entry to run
An arctic tongue her vulva
Where smeared to alabaster thighs
Glittered like a contract in the purse of a
Receiving sole communion from the of Christ

{If blood is thou craves, foul fiend
I yield this witch to thee
If thou draw a veil for me
O'er scars of age and grief}

As the demon slavered foetid
And bore his away
In talons itching to
The of eternal rape
The Sorceress screaming in his
Spat a final curse to
The Countess with the
That her lord at war would be cruelly
And she would rot alone,

On the twisted of faith
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