In the vanity of the promised land we are to be outcasts, crawling over the tombstones of the deceased ages of perfect splendor.
Doomed to crawl over the body of the decayed Mother, blinded by the light born from the Primordial Darkness’ womb, we seek salvation in the repentance of the Dark Gods, as their majestic power prevails in the midst of the eternal chaos of laic existence of ours. Doomed to wander in the circle of the eternal Ouroboros, interwoven by the strong chain links of time and death, through a prophet’s lying lips, guided to ghostly light, stuck in the mud of a religion, licking the bleeding wounds of the lies blown to smithereens, only through the darkness do we perceive our rebirth, as the God who gave us oblivion is dishonored. The true essence is invisible in the eyes of the beholder, as the true power is visible in the mouth of the blind one.

In the lurid yoke,
In the mire of swamps,
To the ghostly world
The voice will be a call.
You hasten to feed your pain with your blind grief.
Long-sleeping ashes you buried in the grave,
But by Kob’ you long to wrest it out the chasm of dreams.
In the black whirl of the thralldom’s allure,
Blood from avulsed wounds pours to make pure
The ashes of a decayed new rebirth.
A grave of mortal coil you dig by your Kob’!
My Kob’… A feast of death!
So, awake from your damp cradle of sleep,
You, the deceased old maid.
Life shall rise from the womb of your grave!
From the grave you were laid!
Let’s turn back!
Let’s come back!
By Kob’…
Owe to Kob’, turning from the old ashes, so weird,
In front of the celestial eyes the young maiden appeared.
Her slender hand gestures, she casts her spells.
With her kiss and oblivion, you’ll have a drink of Mara’s ice breath.
By means of Kob’ this weathered body of yours,
Worn with your exasperating torment,
Will lie instead of her to a cold grave.
And now your new rebirth will bury you
In the black whirl
Of the thralldom’s allure.
My Kob’… A feast of death!
The one, who awakened the dust of the past from sleep,
Casts her Kob’ spells. The deceased maid
Buries your corpse in the grave’s womb, so deep…
By Kob’

Gazing into the dark blue whirlpool,
Trying to look into chasm eyes,
Drawing the plain under the azure,
You see the stood still path of feathered tribes.
In the eternal global vortex,
In silent solitude, pining away,
You will accept the gift to confer:
The dead gains all eternity, alive – an instant of a day.
Turn back, and look into the mirrored eyes,
In the reflection, behold the time disguise.
The cold behind the mirror in the pre-dawn mist,
You’ll taste before bed of your death tryst.
At the dawn,
Go ‘way!
The reborn one in a phantasmal dream,
Make your way through the mists!
A cry is a lullaby song,
It bursts from your lips, erupting your pain
With the voice of the living, left here
By you, when you died
At the dawn.
Go ‘way!
Go to a pothole, crawl to an oak.
Step lightly into the maelstrom…
And watch your step,
Set free your own cold-bound corpse…
Along unseen pathways
Go to rest!
Go ‘way!
Go to a pothole, the dead one.
Crawl to an oak, sukhoderets!
Go to a pothole, the dead one.
Crawl to an oak, sukhoderets!
Go ‘way!
Go! Die away!
Till the doom!
Before the Old Man,
Stand!
On the right side!

Behold Nav’!
Go ‘way!
So, follow the path of Veles’ thread.
Go ‘way to the gate on the turn!
Lay down in the womb of Mother Earth,
And close the gates to Yav’.
Behind you
Go ‘way to rest.
Go ‘way!
Go to a pothole, the dead one.
Crawl to an oak, sukhoderets,
With your arms and claws
On the oak’s bark, yeah.
Sukhoderets, go,
Through the living ones’ Kob’
Through the images of your sons here!
Who became undead will celebrate a death feast
On his deathbed in the mist before the dawn.
At the dawn!
Go ‘way!
Goin’ ‘way, lust leave!
Go ‘way!
Go to a pothole, the dead one.
Crawl to an oak, sukhoderets,
Go ‘way!

In the cold light, gazing upon
The elements’ bursting rage,
Into the water the poison we pour,
Feasting in the messiahs’ ranks.
On the decorated grave’s lot
We build our castles of stone,
But all of us will, henceforth,
Lie buried there, when we gone.
Your Mother groans in the pyre
Of black smoke, fading away,
Her body ‘ll be hidden by fiery spires
In the lowlands of grey.
Oh, child, look through tight fogs,
Breathing the creator’s poisoned fume.
You run like a beast to a trap in a bog
Through pain, licking your wounds.
Attracted by the stinking carrion,
You gnaw at bones of endless wars,
Awaiting for the end.
The oceans’ dark waters
Will crash ‘pon the shores
The divine child ’ll be slaughtered
In the fiery charms of volcano jaws.
The roar of chilling winds
Will chain the immense plains in ice.
Life, for ever, will fall asleep,
Dreaming of a new world to come…
Fadin’ away,
Your Mother
Groans in the pyre
Of black smoke.
Her body ‘ll be hidden
By fiery spires…

With a black shawl she wraps the unfathomed time
Confined to the night,
Walking on the fresh bones of roofless graves,
She silently walks through the ages,
With her taking away.
And a daughter of hers, the lone black Haze,
Stares behind her.
Walks and drags along, Black Death.
Death seeks, finds, takes away from us,
To the graveyard, cut souls as grass,
Counting them in the dark.
On the warfare crest,
On the dead men of pest,
A dark guise dances laying to rest.
For ever, the tormented men whirl
In the endless sleep dance – to a tune
Of the death’s black etude.
Walks and drags along, Black Death,
Dancing in the boltless lightning
Of midnight on the newly dead graves.
With whispers and coldness,
Black Death will lure, deceive you,
Will lead you – one won’t find,
Will steal you – one won’t know.
Mor!
‘ll patronize!
Starting a carnival!
Your laughter of bloody fun,
That is to be my fate!
I’ll perish in my turmoil shades,
In the whirl of tombs and graves!
The wizard in a tradesman’s golden guise,
A dirty liar under a mask,
For just like that, gives the death.
Yav’ is grasped by the pest’s endless curse,
A feast is on the bones,
A masked ball goes on.
For the men!
Mor! Pest’s on the go!
Pest in black!
The bloody-red trophy, prey, and award
Is the funeral pyre painted by Mor.
A hangman knows nothing ‘bout the bones,
But ‘bout a life, and a head on the scaffold he knows.
The cemetery’s tender and gentle ground
Absorbed a life in Death triumphant mound.
Walks and drags along, Black Death,
Death seeks, finds, takes away from us,
To the graveyard, cut souls as grass,
Counting them in the dark.

Serpentine hordes emit their blood venoms into the heart of the Earth,
In the image of madmen, in the darkness of a merciless war,
Slipping off the torn flesh of fresh bones and shreds
At the sunset stained with blood-red.
Cursed be those who dug hundreds of thousands of graves for us!
Cursed be those who scorched my house!
The blaze in my eyes
Tired but alive.
Beyond the skyline into darkness we shout,
Piercing the welkin with our pain flood.
My grief can’t be seen.
It is shut with boards!
It’s circled with swamps!
Sleeps the Earth Mother blood-stained
And will never wake up again!
Only we, hundreds of years, baring our grin,
Leave our trace on the bloody spring,
In a flash merging with the sunset stained with blood-red.
Die away!
Die away!
In the captive light of pyre among its dead ones!
Die away!
He who reigns ‘pon the worlds’ throne with a crown!
Die away!
He who in his thirst has drunk our souls!
Die away!
Go beneath the earth!
But bring back all the souls!
Sleep, my child, near the foe’s scarlet glow.
Sleep, my child, in the darkness of night under the ruins.
I will embrace you with gentle, warm arms.
I will shelter you tenderly from the fierce, dead cold.
Please, don’t cry!
Please, don’t cry!
My grief can’t be seen.
It is shut with boards!
It’s circled with swamps!
But the earth, mired in blood, will awake in time!
Only we, hundreds of years,
Baring our grin, on the bloody spring,
Leaving the trace, as we face our death,
In a flash merging with the sunset stained with blood-red…

Tearing the flesh owing to the despair of being,
Under the gaze of blessed insane souls in the dungeons of aeon,
To the darkness of poisoned flood, to the void, crawling alone,
Embraced by the oblivion of the decaying lore.
Run, before the tide begins to rise
In the silent desert, ‘mong the worthless corpses and graves.
They are called ‘pon by fate, they are the same
As you are from a dried ink line’s greased wave.
Through the Prophet’s pain, the light in seen
For those who know the path
To darkness, and descended through the prism
Of ages into a still chasm.
Though is it your lot
To suffocate from the reek?
Is this the will and the God
Which blinded you and wreaked?
In that pain have you known
The hellish embrace in full,
With which the world has fed
For centuries with itself?
In the debris and ruins, fall into oblivion,
Disappear in the ashes of a nuclear war
From now on, such is the freedom:
The Prophet has no fate of his own.
The book of the Lamb, who has no name,
Repeats the Creator’s prophetical fable
Proclaimed in a silent and discrepant way
And scratched in a scroll by someone’s hand.
Blindly leaving for your false salvation,
‘gainst all those wasted years’ shroud,
You are longing for a generation
To be born to face the twilight plight.
Through the Prophet’s pain, the light in seen
For those who know the path
To darkness, and descended through the prism
Of ages into a silent chasm.
Run, before the tide begins to rise
In the silent desert, ‘mong the worthless corpses and graves.
They are called ‘pon by destiny, they are the same
As you are from a dried ink line’s greased wave.

Only when we’ve known the truth through darkness, we shall
see in the World Chaos’ lair, and being its helpless slaves, fall
down before the face of the almighty oblivion tempting us.
Only through our demise we shall come to be purified. May
the deceased Mother celebrate our funeral feast, only by
echoing her Kob’ through the heavy sigh of the Infinite
Universe, which here gives a new life from the Primordial
Darkness’ womb!
Kob’… your Kob’ is a funeral feast…