On my altar a mistletoe, calming my thrist
On my altar the human bone, terral sand of my life
On my altar my knife, showing the way of my blood
Voice of the nature on my altar, creator of the universe.
The mist, the mystery, the desire, the initation.
Anxiety, fright, secretfulness, the inconceivabl.
Spirit of the drum, soul of owl, eye of the moon, strength of the field.
Had of my brothers. Fire of my faith. Words of the tunes. Key to the gate.
Voice of the river, the orator of fright, flying tortures in the kettle, mingle of doubt
Where power is endless, and anonymously dark, bringing fog on our eyes, conscious hope
The seal of respect gets on our soul's shield, I bend forward with respect in the feast, over image of the gate
Carved bodies with entwined hands, the last sign of the power of the round gate
We step through the gate of the naturem at the end of the floor, we find rest
There was a time when man spoke through souls the dead looked after our steps
Once man hoped with mind, so as the son of the mountain, the stone crashes their heart
We were born... recalled... sacrificed... buried...
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