Winds of the Golden Lur

Twelve Witches come.. three from each wind.
Sweeping the meadows, as they roam.
Their ancient masks, painted with pride...
One thousand years, their song...
What fires flicker.. in this darkness?
Wildwood forms.. thy golden face...
Pours the horn.. of silver mist...
Sweeps the leaves.. aside...
Twelve stanzas sung.. three from each wind.
Strumming the woods, with stellar tears.
The ancient One, beckoned in Blood...
As black clouds, court the Moon...
What fires flicker.. in this darkness?
Wildwood forms.. thy golden face...
Pours the horn.. of silver mist...
Embrace the Night.. with empty arms...
The golden lur, has sounded..
a thousand woes, in the wind...
Black souls, in wander..
weft the black thread, of Night...
Winds of darkness, longing..
a thousand songs, whispered...
As Earthly fires, falter..
carry the embers, onward...
with the breath of new life...