Through the black air. Beyond the heavy fog.
Vermilion towers. The shape of Dis appears.
Iron walls rise. Sealing it.
Walls and gateways hold the purest sin.

Ruled by the fallen ones. Populated by the dewinged.
Robbed of their white wings, gladly stolen of their glorias.
Iron walls are not designed to imprison them,
but to keep the winged out. To strive from grace.

Our helath would crumble would we be robbed of our sulphur home.
Our sanity would dissolve if put in the grace's lair.
Our strength lies where the serpent's temptation is law.
Our tongues would tell but lies if we'd ascend the abyss.

Born in the aerie of sin. Raised among the eternal flames.
We dwell where no grace exist. We are the inhabitants of Dis.

We are the serpent's kind, and our temptation will spread.
My tongue speak my words, spared from your disease.