Luyện nghe bài hát Twisting Further Nails

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

Three moondials froze in the of six
As another soul passed to the Styx
Clutching trinket crucifix
Bats blew from eaves in a dissonant
Omens of from within the church
A fetid, dank oasis still clung to fool

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

Was it the cry of a
That broke the silver thread of enchanted
Of Her life as a 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
the lilt of choirs choking
Where the dead
Belong...

To the and Her charnel arts
She swept ebon towers at the hour of Mars
a star-inwoven sky latticed by scars
To unbind knotted that kept in canter, despair
Shod on melancholy, fleet to there,
In netherglades tethered where idols stared

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

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

As swelled
The fell
To with Her dagger
As the Witch spells
heavy roses all the way to Hell
As sudden grue harangue
two pincered worlds

Exuding bane, something
With the stench of necrophiled
To these
Who shrank glimpsing horror
That the 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 upon Her vulva
Where smeared to alabaster thighs
Glittered like a in the purse of a whore
Receiving sole communion from the body of

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

As the Demon slavered vows
And His prey away
In itching to perpetrate
The nausea of rape
The Sorceress screaming in His
Spat a final to stain
The with the promise
That Her lord at war would be cruelly

And She rot.

Insane.
On the nails of faith.