| This soil is dripping with the blood of angels
|
| I can almost touch their hands through the ground
|
| My eyes are filled with pride
|
| For this land of the dead
|
| Is the precious gift of my father
|
| No mortal value can buy such a treasure
|
| Which I cherish in my heart of hearts
|
| Father — Satan with fangs stained in blood
|
| Smile to my naive dreams
|
| This unhallowed ground
|
| Secret sanctuary of my thoughts
|
| Where I walk hand in hand with death
|
| Upon blood and soil
|
| Oh, don’t mind any pain — it gives me wisdom
|
| My rage is my strength — it gives me might
|
| But something inside me seems to be lost
|
| Is there hope for the blood of live
|
| Or will I always fly alone
|
| Those who are in hell hallowed be thy name
|
| This is for you who made me what I am
|
| For the storm that tries to shake my roots
|
| Is just the breath of the dying god who once ruled heaven
|
| But he won’t succed as long as I stand true to my ways
|
| And even I am alone
|
| I can’t remember what I’m missing |