Whistling steam within a fire lit room,
Shroud this form into a mindless ear.
That it may listen and know what is to be,
Darkest tongue which does speak of flowing blood.
Dares to defy the bonds of reality,
With sticks crossed upon a dusted floor.
Let this ear not croak away each shrill whisper.
For plans unravel in all seeing entrails,
Spread upon a table of bone.
This night the ear that wriggles with slime,
Births two eyes that will witness a fall.
And this servant willingly pulled,
Will descend to every circle of hell.
Upon a crest of boiling broth,
Will it bridge between both worlds.
And in its end connect the living,
To that which gnashes with eternal death.