Lo, my child, 'tis a gala night Within the lonesome latter pears An angel throng, bewinged, bedight in veils Drowned in tears ♪ The sun descends ♪ What before us long beheld As triumphal pageantry Now stripped obscenely bare A macabre charade revealed Our harvest, this carnage This saison noire ♪ Would that you could stay, awaken the dead Would that you could fold your wings Make whole again But the storm, with throttling force Diles wreckage upon wreckage And hurls it at your feet ♪ They said repent, repent But to what end? ♪ Our glorious grand telos Now stands revealed This carnage, our harvest This saison noire