Luyện nghe bài hát Twisting Further Nails

"Mirror, on the wall
not grave pleasures be my all?
For if I see thy Will be done
Grant Me the of thy tongue"

moondials froze in the shadow of six
As another soul passed to the grasping
their trinket crucifix
Bats from eaves in a dissonant surge
Omens of corruption within the church
A fetid, dank oasis clung to fool rebirth

Alone as a cold altar
The castle and its
Like faerytale rose
A widow to the 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 broke the thread of enchanted thoughts?
Of Her as a mere reflection
(As the moon's in narrow caught)
That opened dark eyelids on
The sigh of the woods that the wind upon

Like a weaving song
From the lilt of choirs
Where the vengeful
Belong...

To the Sorceress and Her arts
She from ebon towers at the hour of Mars
'Neath a star-inwoven sky latticed by
To unbind knotted reins kept in canter, despair
Shod on melancholy, fleet to there,
In tethered where onyx idols stared

Was it the of the mist
That peopled the air the prowess of absinthe?
souls begging resurrection
From Gods upon their forest
Whose read of re-ascending to win
from despair through a holocaust of sin

In a hilted in invective rectums
Over signs and seals the prayed
To Death, to rend the slender
That Ancient Ones rise again

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

Exuding bane, came
With the stench of necrophiled
To clandestines
Who from glimpsing horror
the growls of mating houls inclined...

In
(Natal trophies torn bellies of desanctified nuns)
A demons, bewinged,
In scum, prowled circle seeking entry to run
An arctic tongue Her vulva
Where smeared to alabaster thighs
Glittered like a in the purse of a whore
Receiving sole from the body of christ

"If blood is what thou carves, fiend
I will yield this witch to
If wouldst draw a veil for Me
O'er lengthening of age and grief"

As the slavered foetid vows
And His prey away
In talons itching to
The of eternal rape
The Sorceress screaming in His
Spat a curse to stain
The Countess with the
Her lord at war would be cruelly slain

And She rot.

Insane.
On the twisted of faith.