Mythological Cold Towers - Slaves in the Imaginary Abyssal Line

So with indescribable impulsivity
The sun has turned black
And like a terrible dream
Shakes all the firmament

And on the earth makes heard the cry
Bitterness and endless laments
The glory is forgotten
In front of so much disgrace and sores

Monarchs of iniquity
Master of usefulness
Wounds of mankind
Why these mysterious creatures hide?

Alive to find you, alive to persecute you
Full of a morbid hope, the disciples were condemned
In front of thy black enchantment, I sit to cry
Invisible magic

In front the thy mortal look
The tyrannical edge of second death
The eternal fear of decaying soul
We’re tongue disciples
Tongues to manifest

For the cold, for the night, we have me evoke
The sacred names of old mysterious words
My prayer, my song, is a hymn to intone
Guardians of the spiritual plane
Slaves in the imaginary abyssal line