Scene I.

Weakened knees fall to the breaths, the whispers of the ancient ones.
Elders croak and groan, the enemies stand on the edge of our borders.
With a heavy heart, I gravely witness the fire stretch across the soil.
The cries soar above, heaving sorrow, wailing souls digging deeply.

Scene II.

Withering bark, ashen with my blood stained hands, wilting lowly.
Sparks of anger fill the lungs of each waking warrior’s battered body.
Thrust into a battle of the generations of those who fought endlessly.
Claimed, as the heartless march on, without blame, without fear.

Scene III.

Mountains crumble, valleys sink, into the depths of the despair again.
The sun is drenched with silver lined clouds, the rain turns to red.
Parched, these lips desire the wounds to heal, to mend, to repair.
Winning is no longer the aim, the goal, as crackles of desolation appears.

Scene IV.

Once. Twice. Thrice.
No more.
No more.
No more.

Scene V.

Rumbles of earth, rising to meet the despoilers of Nature, of She, of Moon.
Graciously, with sword, with hand, with athame, we rise, we rise, to prevail.
Triumph nears the soothing calms, the shouts of glee, of joyful hearts.
Touching, gripping the betrayers by their raspy voices, we terminate its strength.

Scene VI.

Slithering into holes of wyrd, the thieves find no solace, for She, Moon, graces us.
Joyous laughter is heard across the land, its thunderous victory shining bright.
She, Moon, is lifted high, gazing lovingly over the new growth of Nature.
Moon, the wisdom of history, of presence, of a glorious future held eminent to we,
Forest folk.