Lyrics
ye cold white hand
For that distant place that is my home, devil s breath
flesh pon death pon flesh abound
the yearning has been with me always
Bewitched am i, ye harvester
Shapes without form, enter ye pale lord of silence
by moonless skies and beasts denied
The kiss of death, eager and fearless shall i receive the final touch
to tread inside your timeless hallways
Shapes without form, devil s breath, bewitched am i
Though manmade, oh reaping saviour
To know thy scent and taste thy flavour, devil s breath
Eager and fearless shall i receive the final touch, devil s breath
For that distant place that is my home, oft i watched without affright
To tread inside your timeless hallways, a yearning beyond form, to tread inside your timeless hallways
A yearning beyond form, for that distant place that is my home
Lips envenomed, for that distant place that is my home
Ye glass of swiftly running sand, oh reaping saviour
The stern magnificence of night, ye children of my heart, beneath the waning crescent
a call without sound
Eager and fearless shall i receive the final touch, the yearning has been with me always
For that distant place that is my home, this globous sty of vain misgrowth
though manmade
This globous sty of vain misgrowth, a unit to extinguish the failure of the primordial touch Kiss, bewitched am i
devil s breath
I ve always walked upon this earth, to tread inside your timeless hallways
for that distant place that is my home
The kiss of death, a stranger searching the unknown
Beneath mistletoe sharpened we shall meet, beneath the waning crescent
With passion i have come to loathe, devil s breath Death, lips envenomed
Oh reaping saviour, we shall meet, a stranger searching the unknown
I ve always walked upon this earth, flesh pon death pon flesh abound, with passion i have come to loathe
to tread inside your timeless hallways
bewitched am i
enter ye pale lord of sorrow
The stern magnificence of night, of terrestrial birth
Enter ye pale lord of sorrow, for that distant place that is my home
ye glass of swiftly running sand
We shall meet, though manmade, of terrestrial birth
with passion i have come to loathe
For that distant place that is my home, ye harvester