Текст песни The Twisted Nails of Faith (Remixed and Remastered) - Cradle of Filth

Mirror, mirror on the wall
Shouldst not grave pleasures be my all?
For if I shall see thy will be done,
Grant me the witchcraft of thy tongue...
Three moondials froze in the shadow of six,
As another soul passed to the grasping Styx.
Clutching their trinket crucifix.
Bats blew from eaves in a dissonant surge,
Omens of corruption from within the church.
A fetid, dank oasis still clung to fool rebirth.
Alone as a stone cold altar,
The castle and its keep.
Like faerytale dominion rose,
A widow to the snowy peaks.
Wherein reclined the Countess,
Limbs purring from the kill.
Bathed in virgin white and like the night,
Alive and young and unfulfilled.
Was it the cry of a wolf,
That broke the silver thread of enchanted thoughts?
Of Her life as a mere reflection,
As the moon's in narrow windows caught,
That opened like dark eyelids on,
The sigh of the woods that the wind fell upon.
Like a siren weaving songs,
From the lilt of choirs choking.
Where the vengeful dead belong.
To the sorceress and her charnel arts,
She swept from ebon towers at the hour of Mars,
Beneath a star-inwoven sky latticed by scars.
To unbind knotted reins that kept in canter, despair.
Shod on melancholy, fleet to sanctuary there,
In netherglades tethered where onyx idols stared.
Was it the kiss of the mist,
That peopled the air with the prowess of absinthe?
Lost souls begging resurrection,
From Gods upon their forest plinths.
Whose epitaphs read of re-ascending to win,
Remission from despair through a holocaust of sin.
In a tongue hilted in invective rectums,
Over signs and seals the sorceress prayed.
To Death, to rend the slender veil,
That ancient ones might rise again.
As shadows swelled the Countess fell,
To masturbating with her dagger as the witch gabbled spells.
Cumming heavy roses all the way to Hell,
As sudden thunder's grue harangue announced two pincered worlds.
Exuding bane, something came!
With the stench of necrophiled graves.
To these clandestines, who shrank from glimpsing horror,
That the growls of mating ghouls inclined.
Resplendent in pendants!
Natal trophies torn from bellies of desanctified nuns.
A demon, bewinged, bedight!
In scum, prowled their circle seeking entry to run.
An arctic tongue upon her vulva,
Where rubies smeared to alabaster thighs.
Glittered like a contract in the purse of a whore,
Receiving sole communion from the body of Christ.
If blood is what thou craves, foul fiend.
I will yield this witch to thee,
If thou wouldst draw a veil for me,
Over lengthening scars of age and grief.
As the Demon slavered foetid vows,
And bore his prey away.
In talons itching to perpetrate,
The nausea of eternal rape.
The sorceress screaming in his grasp,
Spat a final curse to stain.
The Countess with the promise,
That her Lord at war would be cruelly slain.
And She would rot alone, insane!
On the twisted nails of faith...