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Facing towards the icy chills, we gaze into the sky
far beyond the tribal hills, towards the mountains high

For centuries we have lost the key to bind our Pagan ancestry,
never to be lost again, to never meet our end.
"...and after centuries of hibernaling and crawen desolation, by our cauldron's fire the key was found on that mild Autumn evening and our way was set... for the centuries had been found."

Our feet upon the blistered and withered carrion dry.
Together where coyotes stroll and witching eagles fly.
The burning of our cauldrons bright, so loud our haunting chants.
The scorching of our Pagan light, around the flames we dance.

But now brought back to life have we, the magic and the ceremonies.
"...and now our paths to prosperous plains... for the centuries have been found."

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