Is a fertile soul
  Like dusky forest grow
  On fallen leaves
  We draw the essence of mortal weakness
  Holyness - the worst gift of light
  Is long dead and gone
  Buried by our sisters ages ago
  Whilst the sun rapes the day
  Grow borns below
  Armoured and strengthened are the sons of the moon
  And not blood keeps us alive
  Souls of infidel men flow through our veins
  One last silent scream
  One last breath
  The moment we appear from the shadows
  To inhale another soul
  Of an infidel men