Catamenia - Half moon, half centuries

From the stairway he threw with the languages unknown,the words of truth and the cohort of fools.Named the man of black for the back of his hands,where marked in numbers fourteen and two fours.From below the stairway, he entered the doorthe torches were lit a fire, his marks were glowing more.He entered the room, lighting the walls of stoneas the cohort at the door were pounding for his bloodthe candle in his left and the book in his righthis heart spoke the names and his hands were all a light.The man called of blackhis hands were lightning the nightthe night of dead moon And the moon wept in blood,and his words pierced it's fragile heart.The man called of blackhis hands were lighting the nightthe night of the dead moon They were many at the door, when he spoke towards,the icon at the aisle, was the night he ever adored.