Warm tones glazing over wharves of receding lands, join the procession of men in saffron robes. Dragon's fire, knotted roots, whispers of sandals through leaf-molded earth, chant, chant, chant against all darkness opposing.
Silas has come to die today, in that ditch by the meadow, thirteen miles in where the woods wind into the semi-circle of a dark green grove. With silent lips by huddled masses, the priest weeps, hungry for the low lisp of a cricket's call.
White animal bones, ritually placed under the thick fog of a winter's moon, reflect the light of sudden frost. Oh Magus martyr, sleep! Cernunnos blesses you with solace as nature holds up her mirror to the wild, devoted creatures of the night.
Under the arching heavens, odorous trees bring incense to bonfires inebriating the Kerridge hills, untouched by the molten blue of morning. Song of Amergin, act of sacrifice; effaced footprints in the soil, victory is yours! Rain falls in the warmth of summer.
