Is it not ironic how your favorite dread is the matrix in which you were formed?
The unfathomable dark of a realm arcane and burrowed far below

The grain sprouts from deep beneath the soil
Where sunlight will never, ever, ever reach

Behold, from darkness we come
That shelter where all life is formed
Ascend, to darkness, we sail
Eternal refuge of the soul

The darkness of night goes out when dawn befalls in the time between the times
And the grain in the soil, buried deep, shall not bear fruit unless it dies
In the dark of Antumnos, the Awen waves and life is conceived

Behold, from darkness we come
That shelter where all life is formed
Ascend, to darkness, we sail
Eternal refuge of the soul

The day is born from the night
In the three night of Samon, the year is born
So the song has been sung, let him hear it, who will

Is it not ironic how you cling so hard to all evidence of all there is
As you maintain your unbroken urge to explain what you can’t?

The child grows in its mother’s womb
Enshrouded and concealed

Behold, from darkness we come
That shelter where all life is formed
Ascend, to darkness, we sail
Eternal refuge of the soul