Beneath a hill they gather there;
Hag and Mother, the Maiden fair,
‘round a table of ancient oak
breathing in the sagebrush smoke.
Secrets whispered from lips to ears;
hushed so only the feral hear.
Learn they do of impending death.
Destiny carried on rancid breath.
Joylessly their eyes ignite,
fire sparks cut through the night.
The truth within the belly burns,
heavy with what has been learned.
The tale of fate begins to rise,
and on the wind of maddened cries,
finds a way into your dreams;
Best listen up when the Banshee screams.