The fresh humidity of the green moss wets my skin,
my body laying down, as it suits to who adores a god,
over the sacred stones of the Cromlec'h.
Our bodies clinging each other,
what is of the One becomes of the Many.
The incense smoke dances with the candles flames
attracting the celebrants astral energies.
The choral worshipping of the Black Goddess raises from our minds,
what is of the Many becomes of the One.
The sacred wine shall fill the cup which turned was in the goatish horn,
the fertile lips shall kiss the rod which life and shape took from the
walnut.
An the Nine shall come at the beginning of the dance,
the naked feet shall caress Sheela Na Gog,
the naked bodies moistened by wood's breath,
the naked minds dancing in the air,
and the shrewd spirits, by sacred fire inebriated, shall turn to whirl,
and once more the Great Spiral shall be Tregenda
one and seven to celebrate the thirteen fullnesses of Levanah,
who of ancient memory made arcane magic mortal.
Simple melodies by Her Who guides vibrated,
