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Any Thing Can Hurt Somebody

When a tree is cut down
It's sap pouring from the stump
Does it feel it, maby not

When you stomp through a patch of clover
It's stocks being rapped of thier leaves
Does it feel it, maby not

When toxins are dumped into a river
It's fish and plant life killed off
Does it feel it, maby not

But others like I do
So stop

Bladen Lahar

New Moon

Bright one of the star of morning,
Jasmine-scented in lapis lazuli night,
Glimpsed through the pillars of the forest.

In the hallowed glade she awaits the stag
Weaving dreams from moonlight
In the silence of the silver trees.

She is the lady of the hollow hills,
Her breath the cold frost
Of the poet's understanding.

She is the priestess of the unseen temple
In the place of understanding
At the heart of the North Wind.

Full Moon

In her fullness she is like the swollen river
refreshed by rain; the tide of magic
reaches crescendo.

She is the moment of birth, the mystery
of new beginnings, priestess of the hearth,
mistress of secret lore.

She knows the cunning of the foxes,
the secret ways of plants,
the language of the trees.

The night dews sparkle at her fingertips;
the spider's web, her castle of dreams,
reflects the light of the moon.

Her wide eyes gaze upon the open fields
and secret glades alike. There witches dance,
make merry in her honour.

In the tangle of moonbeams, in the sighing of the wind,
she comes to earth, reflected in the faces
of those who honour her.

Author: unnone

Old Moon

She binds the cords of night's birth,
a delivery in the hissing foam
of mythical shores.

She walks the path of moonlight
And rides the creature of the depths
Among the horses of the sea.

All roads lead to her country;
she waits at the crossroads
on the last journey.

She is the midwife and layer-out;
She closes the eyelids of the dead
And cuts the shining cord.

At her coming, grief and sorrow
shall be laid to rest, if you will take
her bitter chalice to your lips.

For in her cup there is regeneration;
in her cauldron there is inspiration
and healing for the wise.

As the leaping salmon return to the river
So shall we return to the earth.
Does not the sun return from the dark?

Fear not the turning tide, neither fear ye
the old moon, nor the seely hosts of air
for she will guide you into the darkness.

Author: unnone

Dark Moon

Deep into the darkest seas of despond
is our Lady gone: she who is outcast
wanders in the desert.

Dark are her mysteries; the cunning of owls,
the hellebore, yew, and nightshade
are the tokens of her love.

In the sea-caverns where the treacherous tides
echo her rage and despair,
there is her worship enacted.

Barren is her womb, sterile the great sea;
Men call her Aima. Hers is the mystery
of the wine-dark blood.

Visions and dreams she brings on the dark tide
of memory; the dark tide of blood
which is the wine of knowledge.

Too terrible is her face for men to look upon.
Women welcome her, the devourer of children,
lady of the moon-dark.


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