The mistress of the dead appears
Not to be dressed in black
But in varying shades of red
Like the certain countess
The crescent is her sword
And the sun is the spirits of fiery d**h
Summoned through
Our throats and wounds
And soon we all bathe in blood
Like the certain lady once in Cachtice
Where will your gods be
When your sons grow foolish and impotent
And you are too weak
To fight for a proper future
Where will your faith be
When your daughters carry barren wombs
Giving birth to
The new defeats of tomorrow
During the days of total genocide
We float like ashen grey flakes
And watch the worlds of men burn
Just like they deserve
No hope at the end of the darkest road
Just plain, simple, quick crack in the neck
And we will watch the world burn
Just like it deserves
In the scorching fires of Ragnarök
It shall be made as new