Night of the dead, end of summer sun,
to the moon´s tutelage you are confined
to be reborn her spring, solar sojourn
through dead winter´s shadow, to ground you bind
its bitter chill in your northern turning
from death´s domain the stellar mill to grind.

O night of the dead, we the still unborn
have arisen from the tomb of the moon
on the silver dew of death´s frosty morn,
as light becomes a demiurge´s doom,
to follow the moon who opens our tomb
unto the birth of the sun from her womb.

Moon, we who have arisen from the dead,
on this night, its dead, to the stars are fed.

Copyright Robin Ouzman Hislop 2003-10-31.
All rights reserved.
The Pagan