Valley of the Ravens

Mistress of incantations!
Your life has been weighed, oh bearer of the mark
Guilty before the laws of God
Harlot queen of the profane
Child of the void, begin your march
On the path to the dead lands
Spat upon under the whip and broken by stone
The fog gives way to reveal a place
Of charred flesh and bones
Carrion birds devour the sun
A lovely day for an execution
Light the pyre, start the fire
For the witch must burn!
The demons dance in hr obsidian eyes
Creation of Satan, banishd to ash
In the valley where the heretic dies
Silent she stands without emotion
Wounds still fresh from the lash
Utter now your final words before you breathe your last
With a banshee howl, her voice resounds:
«No number of years will ever wash your wretched hands of my blood!
My vengeance will be felt forever
As the ancestral hauntress…
Harrower of the unborn ones»
Carrion birds devour the sun
Such a beautiful day for an execution…
In the valley of the ravens
Where the witch was sent to die
She’ll be reborn into the darkness this night
In the VALLEY OF THE RAVENS