/Strophe/
O Vesna, breath returned from iron frost,
Breaker of ice and winter’s hoarded cost.
You rise where fields ley mute and bound,
Where dead grass bit the frozen ground.
From buried roots your summons runs,
Sap climbs the wood, the thaw begins.
You lift the river from its chain,
Unseal the hill, unbind the plain.
Lambs find their feet, birds test the air,
And lighth relearns to settle there.
/Antistrophe/
Not soft you come, nor gently crowned,
Your hands are wet with soil and wound.
You draw Morena from her reign,
Lay her down to sleep again.
The fire is lit, the old year burned,
Ash to the furrows duly turned.
We dress in bloom, in wreath and stem,
Bind our young hopes to you and them.
Blood warms the feast, the lamb is slaoin,
Life fed by life, by loss and gain.
/Epode/
You stand between the bone and shoot,
The seed split open, raw, uncute.
Not mercy, but continaunce sworn,
The law that rot must feed the corn.
O keeper of the narrow way
Where death gives ground to breathing day,
Remain until the grain stands tall,
Then leave us to the turning fall.
For we are yours, and briefly live
By what you take, by what you give.
Jan 6
Jan 6, 2026 at 1:46 PM UTC
/Strophe/
O Vesna, breath returned from iron frost,
Breaker of ice and winter’s hoarded cost.
You rise where fields ley mute and bound,
Where dead grass bit the frozen ground.
From buried roots your summons runs,
Sap climbs the wood, the thaw begins.
You lift the river from its chain,
Unseal the hill, unbind the plain.
Lambs find their feet, birds test the air,
And lighth relearns to settle there.
/Antistrophe/
Not soft you come, nor gently crowned,
Your hands are wet with soil and wound.
You draw Morena from her reign,
Lay her down to sleep again.
The fire is lit, the old year burned,
Ash to the furrows duly turned.
We dress in bloom, in wreath and stem,
Bind our young hopes to you and them.
Blood warms the feast, the lamb is slaoin,
Life fed by life, by loss and gain.
/Epode/
You stand between the bone and shoot,
The seed split open, raw, uncute.
Not mercy, but continaunce sworn,
The law that rot must feed the corn.
O keeper of the narrow way
Where death gives ground to breathing day,
Remain until the grain stands tall,
Then leave us to the turning fall.
For we are yours, and briefly live
By what you take, by what you give.
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