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The Maiden, the Mother, the Crone
I lie all alone, gazing upon stars,
A moon so distant hangs in midnight sky.
The stars shine on, I hear the rush of cars.
The Goddess herself descends and I fly.
The Lady speaks, her voice low, velvety,
Utters spells, in an ancient Celtic tongue.
She weaves the words as an artist deftly,
Pictures that in a palace should be hung.
Smoke clouds, swirling and dancing in the air,
Flames flicker, energy courses, we live.
Soon I find I am neither here nor there,
I am with the Goddess, my gift to give.
But when I wake, alone I find myself,
Mystified by only life, life itself.