The Misanthropic

In the well of impurities evil acts with care,
Using its cycles of lust and hate.
And in the dark corner of your mind
The fragility of your consciousness consumes your soul.
Discover and see the monstrosities created by their hands.
Burn with the opening of your eyes and fall in your own misanthropic illusion.

The persuasive acts of corrupt lords awakes the touch of perdition
Sealed and abominated by fake entities who call themselves slaves of purity,
Announcing the end and acclaiming the ascension of hell.

Dig in your own grave, and wait for the silence of the dead,
And with agony, feel the miasma draining of your rotting body, consuming your flesh. The flesh, your despise for flesh.

All the glory is yours, the glory to create a God
All the blood is mine, the blood of infected lies.

Dig in your own cell, and search the strength to survive,
And with innocence, cast them down to the wonders of pain, deflecting the hate for men.
The hate that consumes your faith.

All the glory is yours, the glory to release a God
All the blood is mine, the blood of infected lies.

Born in misanthropic ground
Of great dimensions where evil don't hide,
And men preach false mysteries for the fools
With ears dominated by the wonders of hell.