Let me sing you a tale of magics of old,
of powers that slumbered through long years untold.
Let me weave you a song of a memory revived,
calling the Old Ones, their time has arrived.
Bale fires are lighting through all of the land,
the fey folk are dancing, their hour is at hand.
Their music is heard in the chattering stream,
their call echoes out on the wings of a dream.
Beyond the townships, where common folk sleep,
in moors and in meadows, in forests so deep,
Witches are gathering at the dark of the night,
to dance and to worship, bathe in moonlight.
They’ve winded the horn, they have opened the door,
the magics returning to slumber no more.
By the spells they have woven, the runes the have told,
they’ve awakened the Goddess, and the Horned One of old.
And those who have gathered now join hand in hand,
their voices are chanting, throughout all the land.
The God and the Goddess, at last will be heard,
their children, the witches, are spreading the word.
They sing songs of power when the moon, she is high,
They chant songs of joy when the sunrise is nigh,
They dance through the meadows, and through darkened streets,
join their ancient rhythm, when your circle meets,
Come dance to their rhythm, when your circle meets.
–Andrew Daws, Author
Originally published on Pagan Library