The days are Short, Nights are cold, nature is dormant, its vibrant breath hold.
Now we start planting, turn the earth, prepare the garden, for upcoming rebirth.
The Spirits are with us, alive but unseen, are constantly watching, and dance in between.
Where Earth is wet, and shaddows lie, in the storm and a whisper, we're passing them by.
A great master, once spoke of it thus, I leave here his words, be he always with us.
The wind was on the withered heath,
but in the forest stirred no leaf:
there shadows lay by night and day,
and dark things silent crept beneath.
The wind came down from mountains cold,
and like a tide it roared and rolled;
the branches groaned, the forest moaned,
and leaves were laid upon the mould.
The wind went on from West to East;
all movement in the forest ceased,
but shrill and harsh across the marsh
its whistling voices were released.
The grasses hissed, their tassles bent,
the reeds were rattling -- on it went
o'er shaken pool under the heavens cool
where racing clouds were torn and rent.
It passed the lonely Mountain bare
and swept above the dragon's lair:
there black and dark lay boulders stark
and flying smoke was in the air.
It left the world and took its flight
over the wide seas of the night,
The moon set sail upon the gale,
and stars were fanned to leaping light.
