The wheel of the year spirals in her established and revolutionary celebrations; and the spirits of the dance move freely amongst the bonfire of lunar festivals, whilst innocence parades herself in the streets of contemporary entitlement.
Will you please proclaim a feast for the ghosts of the land who reside in our momentary presence?
A portal to the fairy-world may be obstructed by our diluted perceptions of the significant occasion, even though alcohol and explicit *** are expected rituals by our ancient and sovereign forefathers.
Oh ancient Goddess of pagan folklore, I am truly thankful for your inviting and feminine secretions. But I cannot glide with ease in my quest to find a suitable compromise between the turnip and the pumpkin.
Treat me according to your seductive and encapsulating will. But I implore you: Please do not trick me, because I trust the power of your group intercourses. Let us spread the seed of superstition and burn black candles in the midst of this urban graveyard of symbolic and haunted attraction. I crave the treat of your femininity, oh Goddess of the West.