Sisters, sisters hearken nigh
to Luna's whispered song;
draw soft the veils of dusk and shade--
to Shechinah return.

Fine sands escape the tilted glass,
as the Mother Mary weeps,
for Gaia's rape is unrelenting,
and our children claim the streets.

Thus, we, the matriarchs of Soul
must resolve to begin
to glide a rythm with the patriarchs
and reel our giants in.

For eons have our giants raged
o'er endless dances in the sun,
while men, with their witches flying wild,
seem content to watch us burn.

Yet, heart to heart, this querry haunts:
Are men the first to blame?
To men we are as Luna moths
flown too close to the flame.

Cry honor, honor!
Yes, I hear, and I could not more agree.
But how can we expect of men
what we ourselves have ceased to see--
that women possess a magnetic source
of power housed within;
we sabotage and snuff ourselves
by this electric dance of men.

Pray sisters, simmer brazen courage
to heed your shadow's beckoned call;
embark upon this darkling venture
through the wilderness of Soul.

To circle eternal stones and sing
will shed celsetial light, sublime,
to pierce our shrouded veils
and balance the sands of Time.