But let there be spaces in your togetherness and let the winds of the heavens dance between you. Love one another but make not a bond of love: let it rather be a moving sea between the shores of your souls. __ Khalil Gibran End the Harvest before the graves are dug. Pick and shovel and flesh moving under our feet, calling out that we remember their scrape. Recall with a boldness that blanches not, but memorizes a willingness to douse the flame forever. Samhain kneels upon the soil, turning over a newness of frost and flesh to be chosen as visitors of the dark space, the solemn place, where children reach out for mother, singing the lullaby of two cloths woven together like smiles. Oh! Let the harvest close. Let its steel teeth clack a closing moan. Bring no child forth. Bring no man forth. Bring no woman forth. Instead, bring infanticide next to mother and father, remove the air from their death for Beltaine will arrive naked and dripping with her pliant flesh. The sons...
(The Weaver's Song)