Of Entropy and Life Denial
(<em>Instrumental</em>)
Submitted by Nargaroth — Jun 18, 2026
Children of the Lord in league, walking unseen in the multitude, among the men, whispering words with a voice from above, with a tongue of a snake, and these words are the light of the Lord... Heavenly messengers of coal and fire, keeping hearts beating in vain, emissaries of the shepherd of terror, armed with rusty blunt blades. They speak to souls, they blind the eyes, they hold the testimony of Jesus, cherubs of perdition, celestial guides, keeping sheep away from the path... Heavenly messengers of coaland fire, keeping hearts beating in vain, emissaries of the shepherd of terror, armed with rusty blunt blades. Bathed and lulled in the warm light of lies, like Xanax for the soul, the truth has died in all spirits, they rejoice and laugh as it burns... Hear their words, may they sound to you as the golden truth...
Submitted by Nargaroth — Jun 18, 2026
Only the man regarding nothing as important is able to fully sacrifice his life on the altar of his god. So wonder, fool: what's the blessing? What's the curse? Sick like a monk harassed by the devils of the twelfth hour, and by the sun warming up the bath of Satan. "Let them run" says the voice you all know too well. The believer's race is elsewhere. Oceans of shimmering colours are dancing before the eyes almost blind, tired of a too long play for the end has been revealed. The light fades away, obscured by the black bile which rains in the veins like acid on rust. The colours turn dim and nothing shines any longer, appealing no more, under the sick immobile sun spreadin it's damned poisoned light. The sick immobile sun warming up the bath of Satan. The virgins come numbing every pleasure, eight are they, eight paths out of their place. The virgins come choking the desire, closing the doors of flesh. Almost blind ad deaf, with a dead heart pumping dead blood through dry veins. Noble is the vague, dark sorrow of the one longing for the infinite and whose detestable existence is no longer suitable for the captives of materia, for he carries death in his belly
Submitted by Nargaroth — Jun 18, 2026
I would sell my soul to the Devil and crawl in the oceans of misery, I would leave this life behind and make myself bleed 'til death to force the angels to take my carnal cell to where life ends The unspoken and unseen, criminal behaviour, two stabs right in the heart, mutual homicide. A divine possession, a moment in madness, a revenge in chaos, a life in Hell At last in Hell! This pain redeems inside, washes away all sins, mortifies the flesh and kills all hopes. This path of time is not to be walked, for what is dead is dead, for real and forever. What can be kept through death? See what you want to see, I won't reveal his tricks. Father of my perdition, herald of my redemption, torment of my damnation, light of my salvation What is dead is dead
Submitted by Nargaroth — Jun 18, 2026
No lyrics have been submitted for this track yet.
No lyrics have been submitted for this track yet.
Lower, time takes everything lower. The enemy makes everything dirtier. Children grow old and die, as all worlds crumble and dissolve. Down you go, what did you expect? All paths go this way far beneath. Buried in the dead black earth lies the forgotten architecture, the stones glanced upon through righteous expression like keys to the edifice lost behind oceans of clay. The fall count never ends, it carves the way through cold ground. The fall count never ends, where no one is supposed to go. The fall count never ends, to the truth originating all lies. The fall count never ends, down the cold domain that roots and corrupts the world from above. The fall count never ends, and the unseen eye prevails! Children get their wings through recognition of the stream, thus they join the empire of opposition and feed the torrents that disunite. They get as one with the glory beneath the world and suffer with pride. So, if you see me crying and drowned in mud, don't you fear for me, it's just that I'm speaking with God.
Submitted by Nargaroth — Jun 18, 2026
The scabs start to itch: These wounds don't want to heal. Maybe the whole dermis should be removed before the germs gangrene the soul. Suffering the torments of the alchemist trapped in the tenth tomb of the eight circles and whose nails tear his corrupted body to pieces, but the mange keeps on eating the epidermis, until nothing is left to infect. Truly, flesh is the kingdom of the Lord, the Devil's stronghold. His odious tongue licks the limbs so they never turn healthy again. Welcome to the playground of entropic forces, where everything is built out of sand, where bodies are at war against themselves, it's growing, crawling under skin, the horned metastasis forever hungry, devouring a road leading nowhere anyway. All beauty ends up in ugliness; all that you love is condemned to turn into liquid rottenness stagnating in the foulest cesspits of this sick world. Truly, flesh is the kingdom of the Lord, the Devil's stronghold.
Submitted by Nargaroth — Jun 18, 2026
Unholy semen rains on skinned agonizing landscapes: a macrocosmic fornication fertilizing the ordure, consecrating the ground. The thrice cursed phallus stabs through the arse of our world and this union seals the irrevocable perdition, leaving the world raped and annexed. And he walks His temple, in filth and carrion, as the deity of failure, whose vassals revere in erecting the revolting monument: the immense crucifix, forged by the Devil Himself with the blackest of metals, the impurest of all that is earthly, the god-like pale forever killing the Earth.
Submitted by Nargaroth — Jun 18, 2026
No lyrics have been submitted for this track yet.
A knee on the floor, then the final breath: there comes the victory, the final step before what's next. Darkness speaks and orders, and through the hazy veils of this life so far away, cries the child who doesn't want to play. They'll never get him alive. That's why he's reborn to die. With all the sorrow he found he buries the last relics of hope for he knows, for he's been told, for he's been proven. The fate brings back forgotten shadows before his tired eyes to better throw him down, but fanatic rage fears no challenge. The father strikes everywhere for the sake of holy failure. He bites and tears and tackles the world and the thankful child whose only wish is to die, to die from the father's hands. Whose only wish is to die, to die in the father's hands. And he cries of joy and pain at once at the sight of the crushing fate, the inexorable outcome. They die his death. The father is done with lies. The child couldn't believe anymore, so he saw the truth therein and built the ruins of his existence upon it. He goes as death in life, as the shit-covered sword through healthy flesh, walking in the voice of the father, in his work of entropy, in his teaching of life denial.
Submitted by Nargaroth — Jun 18, 2026