Luyện nghe bài hát Twisting Further Nails

"Mirror, mirror on the
Shouldst not pleasures be my all?
For if I see thy Will be done
Me the Witchcraft of thy tongue"

Three moondials in the shadow of six
As soul passed to the grasping Styx
Clutching their trinket
Bats blew from eaves in a dissonant
Omens of corruption from within the
A fetid, dank oasis clung to fool rebirth

Alone as a cold altar
The and its keep
Like faerytale dominion
A widow to the snow
Wherein the Countess
Limbs from the kill
Bathed in virgin and like the night
Alive and young and

Was it the cry of a
That broke the silver of enchanted thoughts?
Of Her life as a mere
(As the moon's in windows caught)
That opened like dark on
The of the woods that the wind fell upon

Like a Siren weaving
From the of choirs choking
Where the vengeful
Belong...

To the Sorceress and Her charnel
She from ebon towers at the hour of Mars
'Neath a star-inwoven sky by scars
To unbind knotted reins that kept in canter,
Shod on melancholy, to sanctuary there,
In netherglades tethered onyx idols stared

Was it the Kiss of the
That peopled the air with the of absinthe?
Lost souls begging
From upon their forest plinths
Whose epitaphs of re-ascending to win
Remission from despair through a of sin

In a hilted in invective rectums
Over signs and seals the sorceress
To Death, to the slender veil
That Ancient Ones might again

As swelled
The fell
To masturbating Her dagger
As the Witch gabbled
heavy roses all the way to Hell
As sudden thunder's harangue
Announced two worlds

Exuding bane, something
With the of necrophiled graves
To these
Who shrank from horror
the growls of mating houls inclined...

In
(Natal trophies from bellies of desanctified nuns)
A demons, bewinged,
In scum, prowled their circle seeking to run
An arctic tongue upon Her
Where rubies smeared to thighs
Glittered a contract in the purse of a whore
Receiving sole communion from the body of

"If is what thou carves, foul fiend
I will yield this to thee
If wouldst draw a veil 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 screaming in His grasp
Spat a final curse to
The Countess with the
That Her lord at war be cruelly slain

And She rot.

Insane.
On the twisted of faith.