In the twelfth century, on a far away valley A baron condemned all those who practiced sorcery And barbarous crimes
To perish in a atrocious way, Attached alive on a skate without knowing their destiny Maybe that's source of life of the human race With a beastly behaviour Purely violent, repulsive
I'm condemned, like all the others No one knows what's awaiting, tied up and blind Folded the sensation of their stares
My eyes can see rotten, dismembered carcass Several corpses remains, agonizing growls Others around me are impaled The mutilated deads are free
Anthropologist, who takes pleasure at the sight of humans Flesh and warm blood Eager, the four horsemen ride away to devour My warm bowels
I see the destiny that awaits for me I am the feast, dismembered My blood is source of life My pustrescent corpse will be devoured