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Under a sickly moon

I practice my blackened arts.

Poppets, nails, fire, wails.

Walls adorned in blooded spells.

I call upon the shades of night

To consecrate my evil rites.

I darken the skies eternally,

I lure your children away,

To be sacrificed upon my altar,

Invoking Carmán, Dubh, Dian, Dother,

Whom, above all, delight in the spilling of blood.

They feast upon all things morbid.

Sickness, death, misery

I cast upon thee.

Feel the wrath of my black sorcery.

The woods are haunted by my shadow,

They are my domain.

Within their borders is unhallowed.

Those who stray beyond are never seen again.

Before a great bonfire,

I spit my curses into the aether,

To spread, like a black hand,

Opening its fingers over the land.

My presence shall be felt, within your homes,

Within your dreams.

My will is insidious,

My words are a pestilence.

I make your harvests empty,

Your animals offer a milk of black,

The wizened touch of malady,

Curses you to grow pallid and weak,

You tear your cheeks with despondency.

The flesh of your babes I eat.

Feel the wrath of my black sorcery.