The silent cold of autumn, turns the mist to jewels of white.
The satyrs laugh is silent. The Horned One hunts tonight.
The Mother's time is ended, she has ruled for half the year.
See the fertile harvest ending, see Samhain drawing near.
Now is the time for Winter's hounds to run the wild chase
Now is the time for icy winds upon the horned face
Now is the time for ravens wing across the Crone's brow
Now is the time, the turning point is now.
The Green Man's hair is auburn, and his cheeks are ruddy red.
His limbs are growing colder, John Barleycorn is dead.
The wheel turns ever onward, Autumn's wind hounds howl and bite.
In the Circle of the Ages, it's Hunter's time tonight.
The pounding blood of Hunter meets the wind of cold and rain,
Takes the fury of the storm cloud, makes it pulse in every vein.
Soon the times and ways of Winter will bring days like icy steel;
See the horns against the twilight, see the turning of the wheel.
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