On an evening tense with murder and a moon that blazes cold,
Land howls in agony and another life dissolves,
The castle waits, a monolith, with four turrets standing high,

Spires try to rip to shreds the dark myopic sky,
The count appears, so pale, with a touch as soft as silk,
His eyes are filled with anguish for he cannot find the milk

That keeps his soul alive,
And throbs within his breast,
His heart it pounds


The rhythm echoes off the walls, like bells that lanterns ring,
Now the constant pounding is a raven on the wing,

The raven lands, it speaks, in an ancient tongue explains,
That the raven of Eupherides has succeeded once again
To keep the count alive,

And put another soul to rest,
It keeps the count alive