There, between the mystery and the moon, lies a threshold.
With opening, a weave of fleeting phantoms and a fading shade await.
Ask what wispy apparition is this that hovers in the hollow hill,
whose pale complexion places them at this crossroad?
Down beneath the barrow are buried the truths that deepen.
Wisdom watches and waits; the forgotten fires of Walpurgis.
Thought and Memory recall; Raven's wing and thurible.
Dare we dance on the mounds of the pale people
only to sigh out the soul, then hover in silence?
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