SAMHAIN PRAYER

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Lord, lying, Lady,
crone of coming clay,
hear me, here, at
death's door and in his
dark demanding.
Fields fallow, now,
in fullness of the first frost
and last leaving,
heart heavy in the
bleak and biting bane
of green, gone, grieving.
Be reborn in blessing
of ingathered hay,
break in brightness
on the edge
of dying day.
.
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