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Mistress of incantations!

Your life has been weighed, oh bearer of the mark

Guilty before the laws of God

Harlot queen of the profane

Child of the void, begin your march

On the path to the dead lands

Spat upon under the whip and broken by stone

The fog gives way to reveal a place

Of charred flesh and bones

Carrion birds devour the sun

A lovely day for an execution

Light the pyre, start the fire

For the witch must burn!

The demons dance in her obsidian eyes

Creation of Satan, banished to ash

In the valley where the heretic dies

Silent she stands without emotion

Wounds still fresh from the lash

Utter now your final words before you breathe your last

With a banshee howl, her voice resounds:

“No number of years will ever wash your wretched hands of my blood!

My vengeance will be felt forever,

As the ancestral hauntress...

Harrower of the unborn ones”

Carrion birds devour the sun

Such a beautiful day for an execution...

In the valley of the ravens

Where the witch was sent to die

She’ll be reborn into the darkness this night

In the VALLEY OF THE RAVENS