Luyện nghe bài hát Twisting Further Nails

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

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

Alone as a stone cold
The and its keep
Like faerytale dominion
A widow to the snow
reclined the Countess
Limbs purring the kill
Bathed in virgin white and like the
Alive and young and

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

Like a 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
a star-inwoven sky latticed by scars
To knotted reins that kept in canter, despair
Shod on melancholy, to sanctuary there,
In netherglades tethered onyx idols stared

Was it the Kiss of the
That peopled the air the prowess of absinthe?
Lost souls resurrection
From Gods upon forest plinths
epitaphs read of re-ascending to win
Remission from despair a holocaust of sin

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

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

Exuding bane, came
With the stench of graves
To these
Who shrank from horror
That the of mating houls inclined...

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

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

As the Demon foetid vows
And His prey away
In itching 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 would be cruelly

And She rot.

Insane.
On the twisted of faith.