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The skies are ashen and sober,
The leaves are crisped and sere,
Our gods lie in deepest slumber,
In this forsake year.

The fields grow gray and deader,
The crops begin to fail.
And thus we hear the order,
A sacrifice must be made.

In the great noble vastlands,
Our daughters sing, dance and cheer.
Blessed by the god of the highlands,
And seen as sacred and dear.

The druids now slowly wander,
To seek the fruit of the earth,
The crimson source of wonder,
Might, and of rebirth.

The procession commences,
The flames are now burning high.
And smiles now adorn our faces,
The sons and daughters of pride.

Sing the hymn of the mountains,
Sing of east, north and west.
Come forth o'Ancient goddess,
Your sacrifice has been made.

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