I enter the astral,
walk gently across the
mirror bridge, to stare
death and life,
winter and spring,
in her beautiful face.
May she grant me her
well wishes for what may
come next.

Her scythe moves above,
singing songs into the wind,
her red string weaving,
weaving the heavy fates.
The fire growing, burning bold
and gold, reflected in every
direction.

Here, I picture the war horses
pounding their hooves against
the dark earth. Each step a
drum beat pounding to victory.

I laugh the laugh
of wickedness. I laugh the laugh
of love-lust, of the powers-held
by suited fat-cats falling into
the sea. I laugh the laugh that
brings the witches home to me.

I laugh the laugh that brings
the witches home to me. To me,
to me, there in the pagan wheat
fields I’ll be. Moving my scythe to
the songs of the goat, dancing
under the sky, as we know the
mysteries of three.

When I share the knowings,
the howling, and goings,
may it ring with the arrow of
truth. Aye! May it ring with the
arrow of truth.

I laugh the laugh that brings
the witches home to me. I laugh
the laugh of lust known by the
eyes of liberty.