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Spirits hang leaden in midwinter air.
Christ has yet to be born.
The land is desolate.
Not here Egypt's ripening corn.

Darkness like a shroud entombs the mound.
Inside the druids hearken
To the slightest sound.
Perhaps the dead will stir tonight.
In this burial ground.

But first the light must come.
The sun must be reborn.

Outside a young girl dances.
The daughter of the king.
At the moon she glances.
Her body glistening.

She must seduce the moon.
Entice it to her bed.
So that the sun may rise.
To awaken all the dead.

At last she falls in reverie.
Naked to the ground.
The moon slips into darkness.
And darkness fills the mound.

She knows that she will die.
If the sun does not appear.
If the chamber is not brightened.
As it has been year by year.

The druids chant and wail.
They tremble with cold and fear.
On this the shortest day.
The golden light draws near.

"She will live!" one cries aloud.
As the chamber churns with light.
The covenant is renewed.
The Sungod brings rebirth.
The land will yield good food.

- Brian Nally -