The ravens fly high this solstice morn The woods are bare The snow is deep We wait for herne to sound his horn and wake the demons up from sleep To celebrate this dreadful sigh Never reborn the day of light
And the oaks breathe mysterious mur- mursof the horn that sounds its sigh In the moons face beneath the ocre eye like a crescent sword in hour of fight
And baring unto hell each noble head stood in the circle where none else might tread The thick air consumed the night Ravens pride on battlesounds they fed
In a thousand shimmering nighttime dreams druids of old impale me I gaze into a fog pregnant with seeds of decay and die amongst flesh and bark
As I fell eternally Never touching the freesing soil Like an autumn leaf caught in a cobweb dew Lost am I until my newfound wings I spread Death is at hand and perish will all but a fewTeksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
