The ravens fly high this solstice morn

The woods are bare The snow is deep

We wait for herne to sound his horn

and wake the demons up from sleep

To celebrate this dreadful sigh

Never reborn the day of light



And the oaks breathe mysterious mur-

mursof the horn that sounds its sigh

In the moons face beneath the ocre eye

like a crescent sword in hour of fight



And baring unto hell each noble head

stood in the circle where

none else might tread

The thick air consumed the night

Ravens pride on battlesounds they fed



In a thousand shimmering nighttime dreams

druids of old impale me

I gaze into a fog pregnant with

seeds of decay and die amongst flesh and bark



As I fell eternally

Never touching the freesing soil

Like an autumn leaf caught in a cobweb dew

Lost am I until

my newfound wings I spread

Death is at hand and perish will all but a few