heralded by the long night,
the season of bones.
All the green gods die,
cut down by the sacred blades
of their own clergy.
But the world weeps not,
now that winter holds her heart.
Cold. Uncaring. Cruel.
But the folk light fires,
on hilltops and in the dells,
to quicken her heart.
And blood is offered,
from the altars, from gold cups,
to sustain the world.
The long night passes.
The world's heart is rekindled,
and the green gods live.
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