Here beginnes Morte Amelia. In Nomine Patris et Filii
et Spiritus Sancti. Amen pur Charite. Amen.

Fig stains in the snow – sugar for the saint
Vicar Amelia sinks slow, so far unchanged 
The woman whispers, no witnesses yet 
Only the crumbling Cathedral groans as sun sets 
Over the vile woman, veil over ears, 
Soaked carelessly in cold angel tears 

Watch her change in just one winter,
Vile veins overjoyed with vice and splinters, 
Though the mutinous crows murmur mourning
For Amelia, noble nymph with no belongings 
Born bloody in Yharnam, born beautiful, 
Born bored of being human and disgraceful 

She handed her heart to the Healing Church 
A hundred years ago, it seems, to her 
Diamond for devotion, devotion for death;
Calling for carnage with each carrion breath,
"Seek the old blood, but beware the frailty of men,"
Amelia prayed, over and under again 

The miracle of blood would burst from her palm, 
Flowing like syrup, as simple as song
Like Laurence said, a little death was delicious –
Vanillin, niacin, and naturally nutritious 
Poor Provost Willem didn't know what he was missing
Blind from badness and not enough kissing 

Beside the candle, now, she candies the truth:
Blood is the butter of betraying your youth
She blushes, kneeling next to the end, 
Faithful and grateful to fade without friends –
Having betrayed Byrgenwerth scholars and burned books,
Having once scooped out eyeballs with her saintly hook 

"Were it not for fear, death would go unlamented," 
The wicked thought winks and seems wine-scented
As the gold pendant glints for Vicar Amelia – 
Once, a gift for her guts and implied paraphilias 

She clutches it close as a cry takes shape – 
An arrow dislodged, leaving her mouth agape 
The Vicar's bones crack, crunch, and curl, 
And the sallow saint stops being a girl 
More blood, it bursts in bricks from her shoulders
As youth collapses, and the monster takes over

White hair to white fur, four leaves to a clover, 
In his mind, Laurence sees this is where he drove her
Not through the galaxy and toward ancient gods, 
But into the house of herself – he's a fraud 
But while no one wins when wreaking violence 
Spoiled Amelia never suffers in silence

Her chicken feet skitter on Cathedral ground
And her giant hands shake, a ghastly sound
Still, her hood hangs over newly horned head
In which reverberates that thing she just said: 
"Our thirst for blood satiates us, soothes our fears," 
These words swaddle Amelia as Satan nears

It's you, isn't it – who glides down the gloomy hall? 
A hammer happy to be in your hand, like a doll? 
When you reach the Vicar, she's bandaged blind 
As Willem is, these twins are two-of-a-kind 
But is it justice you deliver, or is it doom? 
It doesn't matter in a dream; you wake up soon