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My mind swims through oceans of blood.
Dark mists trail me,
through skeletal forests
and ruined cities
where even the ghosts have died.
Red dusts of desolate wastes shroud me,
and distant gates call.

The plains are three deep
with blinded, fallen angels.
I turn my face, to embrace
the four profane winds.

The signs of Wolf and Crow
are burning in my mind.
Drunk on holy blood and sacrament
I see vision of Him;
The Horned God stalks the land,
His shield the fullmoon.
His sword the horizon at dusk.

All the holy things are burning.
From dream to waking I face
the felling of the final martyr.

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