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 in the shadow of six
As another passed to the grasping Styx
Clutching their trinket
blew from caves in a dissonant surge
Omens of corruption from the church
A fetid, oasis still clung to full rebirth

as a stone cold altar
The and its keep
Like dominion rose
A to the snowy peaks
Wherein the Countess
purring from the kill

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

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

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

Was it the kiss of the
That peopled the air the prowess of absinthe?
Lost souls begging
From gods upon their forest
epitaphs read of re-ascending to win
Remission from despair through a of sin

In a tongue hilted in rectums
Over signs and seals, the prayed
To death, to the slender veil
That ancient ones rise again

As shadows
The countess fell to masturbating with her
As the witch spells
Cumming roses all the way to Hell
As sudden thunder harangue
two pincered worlds
Exuding bane, something
the stench of necrophiled graves
To these
Who shrank glimpsing horror
That the growls of ghouls inclined

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

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

As the demon slavered vows
And bore his away
In talons itching to
The nausea of rape
The Sorceress in his grasp
Spat a final curse to
The Countess with the
That her at war would be cruelly slain
And she rot alone, insane

On the twisted of faith
...