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Mists linger on a frost filled dawn
sunlight glimmers on blade and thorn
grim, illumined but no not all
much remains in decay's dark thrall
Slow, certain the true demise
proving ground for all things that die
the wounds that whiten
the spikes that bind
the cords that tighten
the roots that bind
All in darkness is not corrupted
all that beckons cannot be trusted
beneath the sway of deepest night
dark woods awake far from mortal sight

'Through sodden ancient pathways
we tread to the home of witch-elms
and singing blades of liquid frost
dancing like lucid steam-beasts
that blow the breath
between the hawthorn stems
'Await the signs of our fathers
The circle is closed
The doors to reality are closed
you, me, the gods, and the grinding of our steel
The boundary where ancient spectres rise
not in torment, but in eternal conquest
Into the Wychwood!