Luyện nghe bài hát Twisting Further Nails

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

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

Alone as a cold altar
The castle and its
Like dominion rose
A widow to the peaks
Wherein the Countess
Limbs from the kill
Bathed in white and like the night
Alive and young and

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

a Siren weaving song
From the lilt of choirs
Where the dead
Belong...

To the Sorceress and Her arts
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 Kiss of the
That peopled the air with the of absinthe?
Lost begging resurrection
From upon their forest plinths
Whose read of re-ascending to win
Remission despair through a holocaust of sin

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

As swelled
The Countess
To masturbating with Her
As the Witch spells
Cumming heavy roses all the way to
As thunder's grue harangue
Announced two pincered

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

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

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

As the Demon foetid vows
And bore His prey
In talons itching to
The nausea of eternal
The Sorceress in His grasp
Spat a final curse to
The Countess the promise
That Her lord at war would be cruelly

And She rot.

Insane.
On the twisted of faith.