Luyện nghe bài hát Twisting Further Nails

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

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

Alone as a stone altar
The and its keep
Like dominion rose
A widow to the snow
Wherein the Countess
Limbs purring the kill
in virgin white and like the night
Alive and and unfulfilled

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)
opened like dark eyelids on
The sigh of the woods the wind fell upon

Like a weaving song
the lilt of choirs choking
Where the dead
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,
on melancholy, fleet to sanctuary there,
In netherglades where onyx idols stared

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

In a tongue in invective rectums
Over signs and the sorceress prayed
To Death, to rend the slender
That Ancient Ones might rise

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 pincered

Exuding bane, something
With the stench of necrophiled
To these
Who shrank from glimpsing
That the growls of mating inclined...

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

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

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

And She rot.

Insane.
On the nails of faith.