Hover now oh hound of Hell.
Hear clean this bell that calls you.
Michael's words are fading fast
as the will of God crumbles at thine feet.
Entreat your master to fill this void
and grant here peace where turmoil blossoms.
Howl your song, oh beast of Baal,
so that sleep will swiftly come.
Each little piece of thine flesh consumed
harkens a close to the final sermon
of the hollow heart flooded now
with cold, murky water.
Snarl in rage oh mutt of Mara,
be she tempting and beguiling
in this form of endless slumber.
Trumpet the shrill cries of the damned
who are given naught but silence
in reply to prayer and pleading.
Break the leash, oh cur of Chort,
in this endless wretch that one
would call the light of living.
Too many suns have dawned here
and it is here in the dead of night
that I, him, he, wish to stay.
The bottle is often empty.
The air begins to thicken
The sun is often out.
Let tomorrow be a day of cloud