| Like a cloak of black velvet the night covers the land
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| Protecting the black welcomes the creatures banished by men
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| Deathlike silence crawls through the veins of the dark forest
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| Through the boughs of the trees the blackened nightsky gleems
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| The knowledge of existance of black magic
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| Let’s them groan expectant
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| Only some animals are feeling
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| The omens of the coming witching hour
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| Floating clouds in the sky give the fullmoonlight a mystic look
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| After a while two dragonwings are building
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| The cupola of this magic place
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| His breath hides the arrival like an opaque fog
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| Spellfilled the sulphuric air vibrates
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| A second later witches and warlocks
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| Are dancing in a circle of burning thoughts
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| Ancient trees are bordering the mephisto waltz
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| The devil’s eye beyond the forbidden scenery
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| Is watching over the children of the night
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| Ecstatic twitched bodies
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| Are wriggling under stars burning up
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| Again and again
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| The horns of propagation are fusing
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| With the witches wombs
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| Tonguelike flames are lickering
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| The hidden points of lust
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| Breathfountains of the exhausted
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| Are condensing in the icecold air
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| Of the witching nightsky
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| Without any notion
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| The mankind oversleeps this orgiastic
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| Celebration
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| The 12th hour is the term of the demonic procreation
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| By an eruption of sperm and blood
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| The eye is shut satisfied
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| In the 13th hour the new procreated are leaving the protecting shells
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| All stillborn find their way back into the diabolical throat
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| Being the essence of the master’s existance
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| By a sign of the sixfingered claw
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| The witchcraft has been stopped the air is mixed with the smell
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| Of sexual intercourse and silence
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| Unable to move
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| The crowd is waiting
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| Because a shadow
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| Is wandering through the rows
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| Lying on the face of a young witch
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| The shadow’s fingers caress her body
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| She feels them like a breeze
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| Between her virgin thighs
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| Her mouth starts moaning
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| Until she screams because of her lust
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| But she still doesn’t know
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| She is screaming her sentence of death
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| Her body is burning
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| Until a statue of ash
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| Is the last evidence of her former existance
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| By satan’s breath the icon breaks up
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| And a million pieces spread over the ground
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| Not before this the night discharges
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| Their children from the devil’s service
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| Until he calls to worship again |