Beauty reigns on this of holy nights,

In the shadows, dance the tawdry sprites.

A procession emerges from the forest wall,

To the mournful Moon with upraised arms they call.

A blanket of sweet-smelling clovers leads the way,

To the sacred Ring of Tor, where they shall pray.

Invoking the Goddess, chanting her name,

So that she may bless the chosen one, Morgaine.

Their haunting, lilting melody consumes the air,

A light born in their midst blinds with glare.

Surrounding her in enveloping warmth,

She drinks of the sacred herbs, inaugurating birth.

Lightning blazes across a ravenous sky,

Ominous omens shake them where they doth lie.

Bloodcurdling screams pierce the pregnant stillness,

Dismembering the countenance of the irresolute faithless.

Racked by convulsions, tears spilling down her face,

Thus completes the initiation in this sacred place.

A final wail, worshippers fall to their knees in reverence,

The world spins around her, time no longer makes sense.

The clouds weep from the heavens, spilling their portentous rain,

For their newly appointed Goddess, the chosen one, Morgaine.