The gates are open.
There is stirring in the Hidden Places, where our eyes do not see.
at the center of the spinning wheel.
All time dances around us.
Those who have gone before, those who will come after,
watch from their waiting houses.
I stand at the
Crossroads, at the moment of no time.
I stand in the presence of all times and all places.
They are here with us now, the Old Ones,
Out of their secret houses, the Apple Land. The spotted serpent coils about the circle
and feet not human leave their marks upon the ground.
The air resounds with Silver Apples shaken,
the calling of the birds of Rhiannon. I stand in the presence of all life, all death.
Now is Death come among us, the dark and secret Lord.
The year is dead, the corn is dead,
beings we love are dead, lost to our flesh.
They are gone into the West, with those that have been
and will be again. Beyond the moment of Fear lies the Apple Land
and behind the Dark Mask, the Face of Joy.
The time of rest is come upon them
and of the wind rustling the apple boughs
in the gardens beyond the sunset
And they shall return, springing forth from the Cauldron
in new flesh, to embrace us in beauty yet hidden.