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Unto the vampyric crypts of perpetual doom

Is found the dozens of empty miseries

Mourning to praise their Thrall

They bow unto the Blackened Diadem

The Thrall screeches their ancient stories

Of how they were banished into their ground

Archaic bodies crushed by the ages

They are bound to wither in silence

Their timeless bows before the aeons

Will become tales on carved stone

They will soon descend with the Dark Moloch

And praise his ethereal shadows

Behold, their rotting tombs are open

With their groaning and distaste of Veliki Rod

They gather for their folkmoot

To release their inner demonic spirits

Ever dying and ever-glooming

They mourn to their Thrall of pain and plague

Soon crawling into their tombs

They light the Black Lantern in honour of the evil one

They are buried to wither and die