Oh lowly, oh fowl.
These shadowed knives hide inside,
The sacred night of torches bright,
To slumber gods within of lands between,
Omens sing the nigh shattering in sight,
The death runic aria of the elden ring.
Blasphemies 'om two tongues one forked,
Abductors lay wet of slain virgins scorched,
No stars or more drip the savory sweet dew,
Bled from celestial chalices from on arise slew,
Yet cease the miracle which of seem perennial.
In pleasant viewing crucified queens,
Her adulteries leave naught to gleam,
The beauteous sights sure to be beheld,
Delighted the harrowing of heralds fell,
Neath the order golden burning of hell.
Stones of glint comet forth from wayward stars,
Seeping into primeval rows of waters set apart,
Lifting her of graven harlotry appraisal acceptance,
From a name tarnished low now master's apprentice,
To set in chaotic testament orders of gold set ablaze.
