Вий Viy по мотивам Гоголя

Hey lads, I'll tell you straight—no gilded lies to spin,
Gogol reigns supreme, let truth sink deep within!
He penned a tale called "Viy"—heed it, mark it well,
Of carefree seminarian Homa Brut, who danced with hell.

One wild night with mates at steppe's forsaken farm,
An old crone-witch appeared, her gaze a killing charm.
She rode him like a steed through terror's fevered flight—
But Homa proved no easy prey to witchly spite!

Her grieving sire summoned him to read the sacred rite,
Prayers for her black soul through the unholy night.
And there the cursed vigil sparked its infernal flame.

In the eternal clash where Good meets Evil's thrall,
You never know which tale the final shadows call!
Fate's scales can tip and leave your spirit cold—
Sometimes... it's Evil that seizes hold!

Two nights he battled demons, psalms his shield and sword,
Held back the howling dark with faith's unyielding word.
But third night brought the terror none in hell dare name—
The one whose gaze devours both body and soul's flame.

Oh, Viy! Foul abomination from the pit!
Even devils quake before your iron gaze, submit!
His minions heaved those lids—heavy, vast, unclean—
Homa faltered once... he looked! And met the iron sheen!

In the eternal clash where Good meets Evil's thrall,
He never knew which tale the final shadows call!
Fate's scales were tipped, and left his spirit cold—
This time... it was Evil that took hold!