The dark night of our soul, will bring new sparks of hope.
Calling back the sun, and bringing forth the light.
A lady came to me, on Alban Arthan eve.
She who cuts the thread, who drives the darkness down.
She held her sickle high, on the 6th day of the moon.
Cutting down the crop, gathering the spice.
Pine logs burn and crackle, the stinging smoke gets sweeter.
On the longest night, the wheel begins to turn.