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Son you have left my harsh discipline and hatred.

Now I wait for him, I struggle for centuries.

In our hunger we suffered, madness had taken me.

My mind is lost.

Survival is my existence, and tonight I wait for weary travellers.

My hovel is harsh, and yet they come to me for shelter.

In our hunger we suffered, darkness had taken me.

My mind is lost.

I watch them hang,

One by one, for decades I have sown,

years of writhing death.

And I watch them hang,

as a last foul breath of life is drawn.

Years of placid death.

So I wait with withered hands.

Lust of death grows stronger through the years.

Was him that I killed to be here?

So I wait with withered hands.

My lust grows stronger in years of rabid writhing death.

Life hangs by my hand as they suspend.

Through the door they descend.

I savour the terror.

Flogs rip and tear the flesh.

My lust grows stronger with every crack.

Now I am in power.

My wait is over.

Son you have left, my harsh discipline and hatred.

Now I wait for him, I struggle for centuries.

In our hunger we suffered, darkness had taken me.

My mind is lost.