Alive art we, to hail the Baethylic gifts.
Sight from Thee, gained through Will to truly see.
Sounds wax and wane of none other’s regard.
Sweet fragrance lures Her moon.
Then feel doth She, the Father’s ghastly gale.
The taste of blood sits crystal on Thy lip.
The ruddy thud as mallets hit Thy mark.
Pray, lest She wrests thy womb.
Aloft is He, to blaze a Lordly bolt
A world left razed and breath sunk to its brink.
The brittle crack of talons piercing skull.
By death, we dress thy tomb.
Alive art thee, to keep the Baethylic Law.
With no such gift, all lines would cease to be.
Moons wax and wane; rending the Father’s heart.
By death, we dress Thy tomb.
