The seasons change in other shades on Planes other than ours
And while the forest in the North has cloaked Herself in browns.
While duller hues of purple and of green embrace the Wyrd,
The Tainted and Empyreal, clutching at cloaks, seared
By winds, faint traced in bitterness
In looming winter’s emptiness
The coming, frozen silence
Of snow â€"

The Astral Winds remain unchanged, they whisper madness still
And press and tear like lovers scorned against one’s naked skin
In hope that they could tear apart this never-restful Void
And lay fingers of Kethuru, ravenous, upon the soil.
The Nil winds curse at strangers,
Celestia’s songs are stranger still
But colours of Red Faethorn
Blind â€"

And blind, the Northern Forest, their weathered cloaks pulled tight
Light fires, invoke Lunar rites -- to shelter from the Night
And winter winds, and autumn skies, the heralds of the snow
Their elders clad in old fur robes, heads in sheepskin crowns.

The nervous tension in the air, ‘round fires in the North
Is sharp as soft pink spittle dripping from the elder’s cough
And old, arthritic fingers stroke viola strings, aggrieved
By youthful talent carried off with autumn’s somber leaves.

And so, as autumn whistled through the marbled Faethorn boughs
As Monarch Maeve placed scarlet leaves upon dominion’s brow
Those bittered and frostbitten by the winds of Northern pride
Saw a youth, hunting honeycombs, his sickle at his side.

A Druid of the South â€" how Proud! â€" a keeper of the Wyrd.
His eighteenth’s eve grew ever near, when children disappear
And leave behind the haunted, hunted men that here abide
But for now, the boy was young, his sickle at his side.
Forever more, the boy is young, his sickle at his side.

Those monsters from the Northern land, the bitterest of men
Had lit themselves a fire within, a hate that blinded them
To all the bounty in the South, the Wyrden’s solemn song
The call of crows, of Mother Night, that drew the boy along

To Faethorn, red with autumn leaves! The air was humid still
Though winter came in gentle strokes to watch the Northmen kill.
Those heathen beasts, with fangs of steel, dressed up as if men
Tore the boy with fangs of steel, these beasts disguised as men!

His eighteenth’s eve would ever stay a whispered song away
The autumn leaves of Faethorn’s Queen scattered where he lay.
In scarlet hues, the boy was young, in scarlet hues he died
In scarlet hues we laid him down, his sickle at his side.