If fear still thy heart hold close to the fire;
the harvest moon rises and burns as the pyre
Mock not the ancients, invite not their curse;
misfortune or mirth do they hold in their purse


When Summer greets Autumn and green turns to gold,
when the barn is well laden stray not from the fold,
when Morrigen circles, her fortune to bring,
for does death treat the beggar more lightly than king?


Summer's gone, the sun is dying;
Winter draws so harsh and cold;
gates of Hell stand wide and open,
forgotten realm of days of old;
hope-fires burn caressing moonlight,
tongues of flame lick the sky
Within the circle of the ancients
the fattened calf prepares to die

The forest sleeps, awaits the Springtime;
Beltaine's fire will bring new life;
await the passing of the Winter;
await the dawning of the new light
You want to know what holds the future;
you want to know of hope or fear?
Beware the swords the gods are speaking,
some things you may not want to hear...

Choose well thy words lest folly be thine
Choose well desire lest suffer in time
Choose well thy thoughts be less fleeting than rain
case the gods to thy bidding when they walk at Samhain


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