Dew sparkles as the morning sun rises,
They begin to gather at ancient stone circles
Waiting for the warm sun to be high,
Then they’ll know the Holly King has died
And begin to call, the witches cry.
Gods and Goddesses fall from this sun, while prancing deer run
And to the ancient ones they’ll drink sweet wine.
Within the forest stands an archway of twisted vine
Hidden away, from which hangs flowers of white
Beyond lies, a wonderful place to which they turn
Then everyone at the circle listens and learns.
A golden hand emits from a light
Reaching towards you within your sight,
Taking you gently by the hand
You are pulled through the vine to another land,
Where the light before you becomes unveiled,
In this place where magik is wielded,
The healing palm warms you so no longer
You feel the holes of your imperfection,
Now, you hear the music of the land.
The sun touches the stones at the dusk of day
And you bless the departing rays,
As the deep orange sun leaves to rest
Then rises, the moons silver crest
The song still plays in our hearts
And now, it will never depart.