“Storming sin”

The wicked deeds,
Like wind and storm,
That speeds and speeds,
Moulding a form,
The conscience of which bleeds,
The red soul of evil it performed.

Your own hands,
The murder weapon
Of the lowlands,
The necropolis that is hidden
Within your heart, which demands
Treason.

You surrender
To the shout of hate,
Of your anger,
Which becomes your fate
The moment you pull the trigger.

Now look down upon the corpse of your crime,
The rage you have not controlled,
The ghost that will hunt you until the end of time,
So you remember when your blood turned cold,
And the soul you have sold...