Albion. Our circle. Our home. Our world. Our land of the rose. The land of lime and stone. Our *****. Our Native Land. Our Father Land. Our Mother Land. Our Home. Oh Albion!

The flight and call of the birds imbues us with the future. Our past comes from a well. The present lies in a river. Our elders are now gone in crumbling stone. If the bough of the Oak is as wide as 3 men all boundaries can be broken and our souls can pass on.

Trees bud at the joints and flower. tulips try and keep up with the volume. crocus flowers have done their jobs ushering in change. leaves find their way pointing up to the heavens. the dandelions maybe turned into wine now. spring is upon us. time for rejoicing and divine intervention. Miracles, rebirth, and spiritual growth. brave souls Dawn a crown of knots. hero image is drawn out of instances. every man battles priggishness. this is not a time for mistakes.

What will happen when the fight fixing champion pugilist Falls to the ****** wearing chief? Teeth grinding and gnashing of the utmost. Hero decay in the Form of various half lifes. Truths become more powerful and evil wears like blue jean material. God has lost all rounds but won the fight.

The spirit of Jacksonia lies in the tides. But sometimes we never see what the moon hides. The spirit of Albion lies everywhere at all times.

The Druids power has been lost for some time. But we all believe in Magic to some degree. So how do we multiply our presence without cried or Cree? We rise again starting next to the Old Oak Tree.

Is it true that the Bard spirit Never Dies yes, yes, yes, Lord yes! The Bard cries other people's tears. The Bard wears other people's fears. The Bard gives abundant cheers.  The bard masters the Lyre and plays the music of the Spheres.  The Bard writes heavenly and perseveres knowing when they die they're soul reappears.

The forest is alive with Woods and timbers of Oak. Wild thickets and sheltered homes. Ivy growth's rise over coppice. Clumps of flowers and Clover bloom where light penetrates. The weald is our home.

Bright sunny days and cool nights we wake beside the fires light and to the tweet of the twite. we give a prayer for the day to go right. And for the plight of our ancestors. Whom we raise stones to celebrate. But who will know these rites if we don't tell? Aside from those who Dawn all white?