From the stairway he threw with the languages unknown,
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the words of truth and the cohort of fools.
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Named the man of black for the back of his hands,
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where marked in numbers fourteen and two fours.
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From below the stairway, he entered the door
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the torches were lit a fire, his marks were glowing more.
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He entered the room, lighting the walls of stone
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as the cohort at the door were pounding for his blood
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the candle in his left and the book in his right
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his heart spoke the names and his hands were all a light.
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The man called of black
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his hands were lightning the night
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the night of dead moon
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And the moon wept in blood,
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and his words pierced it`s fragile heart.
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The man called of black
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his hands were lighting the night
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the night of the dead moon
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They were many at the door, when he spoke towards,
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the icon at the aisle, was the night he ever adored.
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Half Moons, Half Centuries
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| Catamenia |
