Iskald

The infected smell of a turning tide
Winds blow cold for the petrified
Who should glow up in flames and turn ash into dust
I can hear your prayer call, what a pityfull lust
I see you faint, I see you die
I spot a glimpse in the burning sky
I nail the book of which you feed
I watch you suffer I watch you bleed
The cult is gathered for the final round
The cross shall burn to the abysmal ground
But the flame that will burn shall never be seen
I can smell the future, the oblivion dream
Chain of Royal forgotten blood
Is sealed under the rose of love
Whispers from the deepest core