In the lamplight of a southern moon
When old gods hold their court of stones
And the daytime makes no siren’s song
The great wheel begins its turning

When alters spring from every pasture
And cattle still themselves in knowing
The archer treads across the grasses
And from far behind she picks her bow

She is of the earth, all verve and grace
Called forth by trumpeting of owls
Whose voices now herald her coming
To the sleeping girls of everywhere

She bends to kiss each future woman
A huntresses mark upon their cheeks
Delivering an ancient memory
A sacred truth while sweetly, they sleep