Impérial saison noire Lyrics

Lo, my child, 'tis a gala night
Within the lonesome latter pears
An angel throng, bewinged, bedight in veils
Drowned in tears

The sun descends
What before us long beheld
As triumphal pageantry
Now stripped obscenely bare
A macabre charade revealed
Our harvest, this carnage
This saison noire

Would that you could stay, awaken the dead
Would that you could fold your wings
Make whole again
But the storm, with throttling force
Diles wreckage upon wreckage
And hurls it at your feet

They said repent, repent
But to what end?
Our glorious grand telos
Now stands revealed
This carnage, our harvest
This saison noire