Looking through the bars of the window of my cell
I can see the village where tomorrow I will hang
Imprisoned in the castle on top of the highest hill
Only 20 I'll be killed, proud of my will
Still excited by that sweet sensation of relief
Of that day in winter when my sickle killed the priest
Centuries,
Centuries of lies
Centuries,
Centuries of shame
Witches, tortured
Witches, burning
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