Luyện nghe bài hát The Twisted Nails Of Faith

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

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

Alone as a cold altar
The castle and its
Like fairytale dominion
A to the snowy peaks
Wherein the Countess
Limbs from the kill

Bathed in virgin white and the night
and young and unfulfilled
Was it the cry of a
That the silver thread of enchanted thoughts?
Of her life as a mere
As the in narrow windows caught
That like dark eyelids on
The sigh of the woods that the wind fell

Like a siren song
the lilt of choirs choking
Where the vengeful

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

Was it the of the mist
That peopled the air with the prowess of
Lost souls resurrection
From gods upon forest plinths
epitaphs read of re-ascending to win
Remission despair through a holocaust of sin

In a tongue hilted in invective
signs and seals, the Sorceress prayed
To death, to the slender veil
ancient ones might rise again

As shadows
The countess fell to masturbating her dagger
As the witch gabbled
heavy roses all the way to Hell
As thunder grew harangue
two pincered worlds
Exuding bane, came
With the of necrophiled graves
To these
Who from glimpsing horror
That the growls of ghouls inclined

Resplendent, in
Natal trophies torn from bellies of nuns
A demon, bewigged, bedight in
Prowled circle seeking entry to run
An tongue upon her vulva
Where rubies smeared to thighs
Glittered a contract in the purse of a whore
sole communion from the body of Christ

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

As the demon foetid vows
And bore his away
In talons itching to
The nausea of eternal
The Sorceress in his grasp
Spat a final to stain
The Countess the promise
That her lord at war be cruelly slain
And she rot alone, insane

On the twisted nails of
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