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