A widened perspective of your darkened reflection

Cold mixes from an ancient pagan rite of fearless gaze at death. 

Here

Falling asleep in evil arms

Accepting the ancient hidden truth.

Here

Смерть приходит с севера

 

When death comes
I’ll need not love –
Consumed,
No wreath or dove
Could offer me salvation,
Not when I’m no more.

Here

Barroque noise to smash the cortex

Pray you sinners, time has come...

Here

A time to reborn

It was an oath....the evil seed is borning again....