Soil and mound, blood on stones,
Swinging blade, rattling bones,
Abyssal chant, profound calls,
Incense smolders, fog arose:
— Tell us, seeker, which is yours?
The spirits point upon the cross,
A forest old, the ancient roads,
A chtonic depth, with black cyclones.
— Heed us, seeker, choose what's yours!
I see the cross, with all it's tolls,
A thoughtful sinner, who atones,
With heavy heart, he swore the oaths.
— Speak now, questioner in robes!
I see the ancient, darkened groves,
Where time has stopped, and nothing grows,
The skies are black, it always snows,
To place of rest my soul belongs!
— We guide your hand, away from woes.
A screaming pit, a wind that howls,
The cosmic dark, the primal coals,
A blackened tar, abyss that drones.
— Answer now, and choose the roads.
I make the choice, for spirit knows,
Eternal drive to please the souls,
To worship deeply ancient works.
«The fate is sealed», proclaim the ghosts.
— We'll set you here, upon the knolls,
A timeless grove, where no one walks,
Shall hold the ritual, that goes!
Soil and mound, blood on stones,
Eternal watch, the altar calls,
With running blood, to fill the rows.
Swinging blade, amongst the fogs!