Pozdney Nochjyu

Late at night, bovine blood
I will pour at the ploughed field.
As the finger bends - and henbane leaf,
Mouse tail will flinch, an owl cry
With the wind is carried away,
Through the field, through the fences -
To every yard.
Through the windows, following the sun,
Through the chimney - into every house.
:::
Late at night, bovine blood
I will pour at the ploughed field.
As I utter the word sacral,
The word occult, the word forbidden -
I'll rush through the village as a plague,
Let the young and the old die - to my honour.