Luyện nghe bài hát Twisting Further Nails

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

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

Alone as a stone cold
The castle and its
Like dominion rose
A widow to the snow
Wherein the Countess
Limbs purring the kill
Bathed in virgin and like the night
Alive and young and

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

a Siren weaving song
From the of choirs choking
the vengeful dead
Belong...

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

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

In a tongue hilted in rectums
signs and seals the sorceress prayed
To Death, to rend the veil
That Ancient Ones rise again

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

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

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

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

As the slavered foetid vows
And His prey away
In itching to perpetrate
The nausea of eternal
The Sorceress in His grasp
Spat a final curse to
The Countess the promise
That Her at war would be cruelly slain

And She rot.

Insane.
On the nails of faith.