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letra de to satiate silence - inconcessus lux lucis

above the murk, from mist it rises, a hypnotising
emblem. erected ‘pon this hallowed point stands a cairn
of crooked claw. a windless sail without a boat, nor
hollow sea to stay afloat. with savage glee it stabs the
sky, with gloat and grin as seraphim die. cosmic shape
shall know no rest, till the blade is blunted by life’s death
for glory, forlorn. for nothing, to naught! for the
darkness is eternally dividing, and the devil’s serpent
forever writhing no life! no form! no limits! no laws!

io! io! crooked blade! glory blackest night! as you satiate the silence with devilish delight. hail! hail! wagging lips that wield the crooked blade, sanctifying emptiness in hearts that you invade! light shed asunder by h-llish thunder, and tidal waves of open graves! stars are strangled, darkness born, angels die upon the devil’s h-rns. dance your wet and fetid flesh dance, dance till thy feet are turned to paste, hobble on thy stumps till all is lifeless, and plumes of golden symbols leave thy face. to frenzied release. from the crooked edge, to blackness. from darkness, to dust. from the sterile womb where spectres dwell, to where roots of earth meet inmost h-ll. where devils dance and time dispels, where tears and blood do pour and well! from the crooked edge, to blackness. from darkness, to dust. as atoms in decay, ever twirling, backwards darting, inwards toward imperfection. fall. into the fathomless chamber of his unborn mind, deeper into dreams of decay without time. enraptured by stillness, raped by hooked rhyme, as creatures of the dark become your holy guides
io! io! crooked blade! glory blackest night! as you radiate the stillness, with fervent grim delight. hail! hail! wagging lips that wield the crooked blade. purifying nothingness, in emptiness you wade
night falls o’er yonder, and silence wanders. the bride of dusk, once again exhumed. leaden golden guide of gloom, no god shall block up this f-cking tomb. let us hasten the pneumiatic departure, and unhinge this projection out of place, as a venue of vultures shall gather, to eat the dying flesh off of your face. for the will of the crooked blade is to satiate silence. from the crooked edge, to blackness. from darkness, to dust. from the sterile womb where spectres dwell, to where roots of earth meet inmost h-ll, where devils dance and time dispels, where tears and blood do pour and dwell
for the will of the crooked blade
is to satiate silence

- inconcessus lux lucis

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