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English Fire

Seven brides serve me seven sins

Seven seas writhe for me

From Orient gates to Rlyeh

Abydos to ThessalyAnd Sirens sing from stern

But now I cease to play

For I yearn to return to woodland ferns

Where Herne and his wild huntress layNow the tidal are turning, spurning the darkness

The great purgations of distinguished tours

Are but stills in time to the thrill that Im once more

Heading to the bedding of her English shoresThe wind bickered in Satanic mill sails

Eyes flickered in deep thickets of trees

And mists clung tight in panic to vales

When Brigantia spoke her soul to meFrom Imbolg to Bealtaine

Lughnasadh to Samhain feasts

I heard her lament as seasons blent

Together a chimerical beastNow the tidal are turning churning in darkness

The celebrations of extinguished wars

Are but stills in time to the chill that climbs once more

Dreading the red weddings on her English shoresGone are the rustic summers of my youth

Cruel winters cut their sacred throats

With polished scythes that reap worldwide

Pitch black skies and forest smokeAnd the hosts that I saw there

Drones of carrion law

Drove the ghosts of my forbears

To rove and rally once moreOne of her sons from the vast far flung

Come home to rebuild

The rampant line of the Leonine

Risen over pestilent fieldsNow the tidal are turning burning in darkness

The salvation of her hungry sword

Shalt spill like wine from the hills to chines that pour

Spreading her beheadings on these English shoresFor the hosts that I saw there

Drones of carrion law

Drove the ghosts of my forbears

To rove and rally once moreThis is a waking for England

From its reticent doze

This is a waking for England

Lest hope and glory are regarded as foes

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