Infinite impenetrable ether hanging overhead,
pale corpse grey or lurid yellow skies,
it still rains heretics.
And it’s all those suspected that come to the feast of my fault,
coming to Jerusalem for a torrid Inquisition.
It still rains flames and sulfurous asphalt.
It’s all Torquemada burned
and it’s all my fault that the skies are clouded, funereally shrouded.