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Descended from pure night thrones, on hillsides of lord winters cloak.
Amongst wood temples, watched by hooded eyes.
A trinity, pulled from void.
how many times have I laid my blood down for you? For us?
A spell bound hatred of form and feature.

Through my body flow black torrents,
Through the tops of trees scream winds,

Words I whisper, lost in the cold air, but the meaning drops like seeds to the ground.
And through harsh winters those seeds grow.
Centuries of desecration, centuries of growth
Twisted, black trees have pushed through dead earth.
To meet, to receive.
The thrones on which we sit, with bleak, black woods,
within dark endless nights.
Nights of fight, nights of blasphemy,

Rage again! With fire and steel,
Let no fist unclench, let ravens blood be not wasted,
Inhale natures dark way and embrace unholy dark thrones.

Ritual within me, of wood and blood.
Ritual within me, of misery and glory.

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