Blood flowing from Abel. Trumpet calls in battle.
Struggles between brothers. Commotion and horror.
Flags floating in the air. Machine guns wound, rattle.
And, dressed in purple robes, every great emperor.
Blood that's flowing from Christ. The organ's rich fullness.
The celestial vineyard yields the celestial mead.
And at the hollowed brim of the golden chalice,
the souls are all sipping in the wine that's now sacred.
Blood flowing from martyrs. Strings of the psaltery.
Great bonfires and lions, the palms of victory.
The bright crimson heralds that come from mystery
usher in the great dawns with endless pageantry.
Blood that the hunter spills. The horn he knows so well.
Scarlet-colored furies on the red roads of fate
forge on ringing anvils in the darkness of Hell,
the deadliest weapons that murderers create.
Oh, blood of the virgins! There's the sound of the lyre.
The spell of bu*terflies, enchantment of the bee.
The star of Venus shines, and watches with its fire
purple hues, of triumph, the stains of royalty.
The blood that's spilled by the Law.
Muffled rolling of the drum.
d**h waters the blooming oleanders it saw.
The red comet announces ruin that will come.
Blood of the suicides. Choral prayers for the dead.
Macabre sorts of fanfare, hand organ in the street.
In places where the sick and the insane are led,
we celebrate the shining pool of Saturn's feet.