Glastonbury shapings; Carnac arrangings
Hypochthonic remnants summon Metachthonic tenants
Songs of ages past lived and died still neolithic
Lore of ages past has waited for years to come to you
Raknehaugen, Anundshög, draw you through temporal murk
Sub-terranean remnants summon post-terranean tenants
We souls of ages past, we'll tear up the earth to get to you
Buried neath the megalithic, spirits of ages past: the slumbering to rise again
Post-terranean vastlands, the self in terms electrical
All voiceless aspirants who hope in hexadecimals
We are the hypochthonic; we will give you voice
To you, the innate electronic, to rise above the noise
"We are the air that wakes with the dawn
We are the fire that burns with the midday sun
We are the water that cools with the dusk
We are the earth that restores with the midnight calm"
The times change like the river flows by: swift and raging
Never aware where its hurried course lies, yet ever racing
To take the times wholesale is to be taken by the times
To take the past wholesale is to be left behind
To weigh the finest of past and present is to
Navigate the times. In any year, culture, clime; to navigate is to thrive
Sing, sing to the sky the dark song of Chthonia
Sing loud, sing to the times, a call through Metachthonia
I am the air; far I shall roam
Under the sky in all of its shades
I am fire; long I shall burn
To renew the self and temper the blade
I am water; clear I shall flow
To cleanse the self of what sullies the times
I am the earth; firm I shall stand
Hold fast to what shines through from the past
When you stand among the pine
You stand in a far-stretching line
Of all who've stood in rapture here
And all who shall in coming year
For in the wood you are the same
As those to come and those who came
To root themselves in rapture here
And those who shall in coming year
To sit at Odell's heart and contemplate the times
Among the fallen hemlock that rampart on all sides
To sit at Odell's heart and contemplate what's mine
What's mine to give, receive, provide; what's owed me by the times
What the times should give, provide, for all beneath them to thrive
So we know, like each fleck of snow in the storm
None is alone in this plight
It's a grounding
Among these electric times to reflect what the times have become
To shrug off the wires and, in cool cedar air, think with forgotten clarity
A grounding, among these electric times
Your feet to the earth and your mind to its calm
Your soul to all who have stood where you are
To feel in their bones how timelessness flows now in the air around you