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When descending to the medieval vilage
he was like the moon
That casts on the alleys a sinister gloom
A floating appearance - the redeemer is limping
Through magnificent aura bad faith is sinking

So' let the fane be raised within one Saturnine night!
Blasphemy!

The blessed cremation of the heading believer
Lets reek ascend above moonlit roofs and alleys
And so benumbing is the stroke of the village knell
Call forth his wrath!

Perpetual fear
Of the ruined arches
Of the giant knell
Of Him.

Ite, missa, est.

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