These are the ancient woods Those cover the secrets The little spirits, unvisible The dance starts at midnight. Burning clouds of thunder His call sounds
Unter dem Schein des Mondes auf dem von Fackeln erleuchteten Pfad. Blutige Finger, gespaltener Geist angstliche Blicke
Do you hear the cries those tear the silence of night Cries of forgotten souls, signed by a painful life. In search for the real truth, the ancient
The church is a whore of revelation Gins and vices rule in it Church don't spring from Jesus but from malefactores The pope is the leader of all malevolence