At The Sound Of The Midwinterhorn

The ravens fly high this solstice mornThe woods are bare The snow is deepWe wait for herne to sound his hornAnd wake the demons up from sleepTo celebrate this dreadful sighNever reborn the day of lightAnd the oaks breathe mysterious mur-Mursof the horn that sounds its sighIn the moons face beneath the ocre eyeLike a crescent sword in hour of fightAnd baring unto hell each noble headStood in the circle whereNone else might treadThe thick air consumed the nightRavens pride on battlesounds they fedIn a thousand shimmering nighttime dreamsDruids of old impale meI gaze into a fog pregnant withSeeds of decay and die amongst flesh and barkAs I fell eternallyNever touching the freesing soilLike an autumn leaf caught in a cobweb dewLost am I untilMy newfound wings I spreadDeath is at hand and perish will all but a few