on this night of a depressive autumn under branches of these old trees on this hour thy sign i glorify black flame of satan in my heart fog is rising from the murky waters carrying the stench of the swamp an owl is hooting sounding afar as melancholy takes a grip i drink the blood of a virgin child from an old golden flask in my mind the countess of cachtice and the memory of terror she spread bitter words utter from my lips incantations of reincarnation with the blood thy sign i glorify waking instincts of a wolf i am finding strength in the hate misanthropic burning wounds as much as i hate the human pigs so i hate the flesh of my own