It was in the cold dungeon and surrounded by the holy
We were chained to the floor, damp to the bone
Breath pressed out by weights piled upon the chest
We were hung from the stone, forced to drink, drowning

We spat out our bile, cursed them
With pure hate, we confessed
We were placed in the line, a procession of ghouls
Towards the auto-da-fe

A black sambenito, all serpent and flame
My fate is the fire, bound to the stake
The festival unfolds
I can smell the flesh burning

I can hear the shrieking and the crackle and the roar of the blaze
Over the moaning and the glee of the crowd
Those screaming men and women ablaze
With necks that would not be throttled; heretics until the end