Слова:
Altar Of Plagues

A once sacred womb, now more akin to a furnace. And we watch her bleed, watch the wounds run dry. Bury my hands in the soil Fingers withered and grey

There is a mist that chokes the land. The waves attack. Relent. The skies attack, They come, relentless.

wand Ia iak sakkakh iak sakkakth Ia shaxul [Solo: Azagthoth] I call forth the god pazuzu I call forth the lord of plague I am of the lost Creatures