Luyện nghe bài hát Twisting Further Nails

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

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

Alone as a stone cold
The castle and its
Like faerytale dominion
A widow to the snow
Wherein reclined the
Limbs purring the kill
Bathed in virgin white and like the
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 in narrow windows caught)
That opened like dark on
The sigh of the woods that the wind upon

a Siren weaving song
From the lilt of choking
Where the vengeful
Belong...

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

Was it the Kiss of the
That peopled the air the prowess of absinthe?
Lost souls resurrection
From Gods upon their forest
Whose epitaphs read of to win
Remission from through a holocaust of sin

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

As swelled
The Countess
To with Her dagger
As the Witch spells
Cumming heavy all the way to Hell
As sudden thunder's grue
two pincered worlds

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

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

"If blood is what carves, foul fiend
I will yield this to thee
If thou wouldst 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 Sorceress screaming in His
a final curse to stain
The Countess the promise
Her lord at war would be cruelly slain

And She rot.

Insane.
On the nails of faith.