Ēole from Winterwheel by Moss of Moonlight

Moonfed this moss, sky-torched our trail/a soothspell of caves, at season's end we seek you
for we are all Pagan, children of cinder/eaters of seed, walkers of wheels.
 
Now stir earth with eve-light, rebirth spun by song
step soft into the cave, with the gifts we once gave
for we are all Pagan, reavers of winter/reapers of rite, sowers of spring.
 
Hear us!  Hear us!   Hear us!  Hear us! Hretha!
 
Blood burns like balefire, a torch tapped from palms.
For a year spring lived in our veins, till end meets beginning again.
  
Moonfed this moss, sky-torched our trail/a soothspell of caves, at season's end we seek you
for we are all Pagan, children of cinder/eaters of seed, walkers of wheels.

Hretha!
 
Hands hilled with the bones of her last meal/mouth open for the first.
Squeeze palm-weeping upon her tongue/grant goddess the grave-gift.
 
Her teeth ruddy/her teeth ruddy/her teeth ruddy with our red
 
Elkling calf with green eyes, she holds its sapling stare
she nurses it on snow-nectar, our palm-blood from her breast.
 
Bone to bloom, fast to feast/bone to bloom, fast to feast
 
Séo eftborenu gydenu ástýraþ of hire hrúse-hreðer
læfað wæccendeu héo æt hire fót-galdor
þa treowu scíedeaþ hire snáw-scinn
þa bán-mónþas beoð fullpungenan
 
Rén-snaca, hire blód yðgaþ/swá swá se tagl-etere forgnægeþ
eorðmægen, swá swá þæt holmmægen hwileð
tó foldan tumbað, þæm tó wolcne astigeþ
 
In spring, she seeks pastures for her elkling
fiddlehead and field for fodder/berries, bones and birch bark.
 
Rén-snaca, hire blód yðgaþ...

At summer's end, foothills and forests/the elkling feasts upon mist.
Autumn comes/two months of blood in a smoky hall
a meat-gorge before the end/elk-bones at her feet.
 
þa se Geóla/þa se forst/þa þá giclas/
and hire slæpig andwlita biþ freórig eolhblóde
wé híe bringaþ tó þæm cofan

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