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An awakened witch-doctor in the middle of the woods,

Strives for the piece of Thurisaz, fights for the sip of berserk’s solution,

A beggar of high, dressed in the white hatred, an omen of misfortune,

He’ve burned bindrunes on his chest, he’ve cutted his flesh to see his blood flew,

He used to mix gin with tonic and blood in a horn, so that he could grow up in astral health,

But his circle of protection had been pierced by the tempest and hailstones

They harmed his heart and crucified the aortas,

He got into the old shit with love again,

To declare his satanic pride roaring above the woods,

He lead himself astray of self-pity, but who will do it if not himself?

Who will love him after the dark night of the soul?

He will make an elixir with afterburner and sweeten it with codeine,

He will shake it in the ritual of cleansing,

And banished out the virus of humanity out of himself,

As he snorted the white battlefield dust,

He wiped his nose so he cleansed his arcane forces,

Out of many doubts and forgotten cares,

He looked at the stars constellation surprised,

With a bitterness of uncomfortable awakening,

He felt silence with no relief inside,

To let the coldest hatred to chase his doom away