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Thaclthi
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E tu vivrai nel terrore! L'aldiquà
Auri sacra fames
by few imagined, by majority derided,
here is what you deserve,
from a long time of raping, exploiting
and assuming yourself as a Prometheus.
Your wings are now melted,
the arms severed, but the hunger
still to be satisfied, although after an Eternity of dyspepsia.
Crippled being! Rotten, putrid soul!
You, who can only ejaculate betrayal and venoms.
Exhausted blood, that even worms would disgust,
flows richly out and escapes from your digits
and orifices.
A feast of corrosive aridity.
Congesto pauper in auro
the gold now transformed into lava and plague,
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your abundance.
You, god/scarecrow by ten worlds!
Veins are about to explode everywhere,
while hordes of owl-faced demons riding black wolves
are breaking apart the soil and spitting rivers of spiders
Acherontia Atropos are singing in celebration
on the roof of the temple. The ceremony begins.
A paralytic King Midas is leading,
and the chained mass of humans,
prone to blind adoration,
is preying while vultures are devouring their entrails.
The altar is in flame. The windows crumble.
Dead empty vast oceans cross the lowermost threshold.
Etiam periere ruinae.
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