By: Jerome Brooke
Bitter cold covered the land, ice and snow brought hunger,
Death to the tribe, sure and soon.
Maiden most fair, bride of darkness, was carried to the stone,
Altar of the Goddess, Lady of the Moon.
Came the wise woman, armed with blade of obsidian, sharp and cruel,
Seeking blood, as we sang.
Chants of the demon kind, filled the dark night, night of the new sun,
Herald true, of the spring.
Screams of fear, calls for mercy, rose from the victim,
Untouched by man, holy and pure.
Red blood flowed, to call the spring, to placate demons of ice;
Gathered then the tribe, the horrid feast their lure.