The frigid air catches in my aching lungs,
Catching in my throat much like it did that night.
The fate of those who fell was determined by their lies;
I'd strike them down again were it not for their stilled tongues.
And through all the contempt, I'm in no way contrite;
Despite all the spite, I dispose those I despise!

The frigid air slows the blood in my veins;
Muddy and murky like the stream beside the glen.
That glorious site where I buried all they'd hope to be,
Because brutality breeds more until nothing remains.
Honestly I can say I'm the happiest I've ever been,
The pious peons I put down: a delicious catastrophe.

The frigid air burns my blood-stained lips,
As my wind-chapped cheeks tug with vicious grin.
Recalling the frozen chosen who would be my one true reason,
I cast my gaze upon the sky, taking in the splendor of the eclipse.
It's true, what they say, about all of Summer breeding sin,
But in my frozen wasteland, I can't blame the season.