Burning skies over Tyrrhenian Sea.
Death rains obsidian ashes,
dyeing the quarters of Rome
in a sanguine light.
Incense playing with pestilentia.
In the ancient gear of time
hides a holy parasite
conjuring seraphic wheelworks.
Paint a reflection in my iris
and let me hear the sound of blood.
Who are you sweet miracidium?
Get off possessed premonition!
Excise the thing
like a nail out of my wound,
unsaintly inoculation.
I'm a jigsaw fallen down,
missing parts were never found.
We're drowning in holy water...
There's a reflection in my iris
(Christus - Sanctus - Me vocat)
that helps me to hear the sound of blood.
(Scriptum - Divinum - Illuminat)
Tears are the noises of water,
(Christus - Sanctus - Me vocat)
a God's distillation of the flood.
(Scriptum - Divinum - Illuminat)
Now I can see the sun arising
(Christus - Sanctus - Me vocat)
and I can feel the sound of blood.
(Scriptum - Divinum - Illuminat)
Tears are the noises of water,
(Christus - Sanctus - Me vocat)
God's distillation of the flood.
(Scriptum - Divinum - Illuminat)