The Reaping Crone
The Reaping Crone rides the sky
Sweeping, reaping
The old and the dead are to her hearth fires led
By the twinkling of her eye
Drawing down the harvest moon
Silver tongue, with an ancient rune
Across the veil, returns the tune
La, la
La, la, la, la, ah, lo
La, ah
Far as the eye, the eye can see
The rolling hills, the wild and free
And a thing out of time is born in me
I am old, yes, it's true
The holy oak, the rowan tree
The sap; the wine, the soul; a seed
As I am quickened and I have need
I love as she loves through me
The Reaping Crone rides the sky
Sweeping, reaping
The old and the dead are to her hearth fires led
By the twinkling of her eye
Swaying soft, her breath of trees
Her crown: the stars—her womb; the seas
And a thing out of time is born in me
I am old, yes, it's true
As ash is Adam, and elm is Eve
And Mother Korn, the laden sheave
As I am quickened and I have need
I love as she loves through me
Autor(es): Robert Steven Reiser, Scott Henry Fray
