Anthropophagist

In the twelfth century, on a far away valley
A baron condemned all those who practiced sorcery
And barbarous crimes

To perish in a atrocious way,
Attached alive on a skate without knowing their destiny
Maybe that's source of life of the human race
With a beastly behaviour
Purely violent, repulsive

I'm condemned, like all the others
No one knows what's awaiting, tied up and blind
Folded the sensation of their stares

My eyes can see rotten, dismembered carcass
Several corpses remains, agonizing growls
Others around me are impaled
The mutilated deads are free

Anthropologist, who takes pleasure at the sight
of humans
Flesh and warm blood
Eager, the four horsemen ride away to devour
My warm bowels

I see the destiny that awaits for me
I am the feast, dismembered
My blood is source of life
My pustrescent corpse will be devoured