The mistress of the dead appears Not to be dressed in black But in varying shades of red Like the certain countess The crescent is her sword And the sun is the spirits of fiery death Summoned through Our throats and wounds And soon we all bathe in blood Like the certain lady once in Cachtice Where will your gods be When your sons grow foolish and impotent And you are too weak To fight for a proper future Where will your faith be When your daughters carry barren wombs Giving birth to The new defeats of tomorrow During the days of total genocide We float like ashen grey flakes And watch the worlds of men burn Just like they deserve No hope at the end of the darkest road Just plain, simple, quick crack in the neck And we will watch the world burn Just like it deserves In the scorching fires of Ragnarök It shall be made as new