The Howling Dead کے بول

Appearing like cracked whispers From desiccated bones Sulphuric miscreations Mausoleum torches glow Spirits from beyond the black They are three, they are true death They are hate, despair, disease Awakened by gore to manifest Awakened by gore Re-open the eyes of the once sleeping dead The dagger goes into the wound bloody red Releasing the spectres of yesterday's doomed Bane of the living, a curse to consume Hate-a vision of flesh being torn Despair-demise on the altar of Scorn Disease-Inflicting the soon to be born All have been forewarned The wind of flies approaches All once held dear befouled The earth and sea in ruins The night alive with howls