Tekster:
Celtic Frost Morbid Tales

might The tyrant's the precursor You carry the will As the morning is near I sing the ballads Of victory and defeat I hear the tales Of frozen mystery

this night Nitocrys weaves the spell Down the vault's misty light The lurking Sphinx dwells Agony and nightmare To Yog sothoth they noan Nightfalls, morbid

Oversættelse: Celtic Frost. Morbid Tales.

the might The tyrant's the precursor You carry the will As the morning is near I sing the ballads Of victory and defeat I hear the tales Of frozen mystery

... the perverted son The holy man... hanged by nobility Into The Crypts of Rays... Alluring children for his masses Robbing and buying young souls Sacrifice to morbid

Obscurity hides the plateau Stars darkened at their place Nanna's glowing above Illuminates the silent scenery Seven they are-Yeziti's Call Aeon of

intellect Dull is my mind Captive of illusion Remaining awake Is just dust Take my soul away into the dark Dreaming a thousand morbid dreams No tomorrow

Thousand decades in vain (Again) they strive for final completion Forgotten are the fast sins And the perfect creation calls What will the wind bring