Grim cold caverns, standing at the edge of the earth.
Wretched little spawn, sitting at the helm of all he
Bones of the dead and obscure trivial things,
From the depths of hell, and of magical origin.
Amassed with intent
for invoking of the demons.
Advent darkness ascertains commencement
Of pagan rituals, to summon forth
The legions of demons
who shall rise from the dead
And come to the bidding of the wretched little one
Panoptic gray clouds of
From which the lightning strikes
The encompassing vile wind
Ravaging the cold barren land
From bloodied heavens, hell
A raging fury in the form of pure evil
And blood that falls in form of rain
Marks the coming of invoked