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When descending to the medieval vilage

He was like the moon

That casts on the alleys a sinister gloom

A floating appearance - the redeemer is limping

Through magnificent aura bad faith is sinking

So' let the fane be raised within one Saturnine night!

Blasphemy!

The blessed cremation of the heading believer

Lets reek ascend above moonlit roofs and alleys

And so benumbing is the stroke of the village knell

Call forth his wrath!

Perpetual fear

Of the ruined arches

Of the giant knell

Of Him.

Ite, missa, est.