Forgive this deception of mine, my Red-Horned Lord,
as I lay my blood hands on this round of Easter.
I play with Sons of God, but in me only You are stored,
bound on Earth in vain, with an aim to feast Her.
They always see me but they will never know,
I mask my colors under the weeping willow,
darker than The Bible, deeper than the low,
and in Mormo's name I pray, for our tomorrow.
/\/\/\