The skies above have darkened THe stars have aligned We're witness to a rite of black magic design Master of witches King of the chaos-sphere Pastoral god whose altar burns with pagan fear.
The Great God Pan Born behind the stars The ancients live again.
Song of the woodlands Pan Pipes are crying reeds His maddened tune will lift the autumn leaves We see the horned-one We see his shape assume The form of laughing wines and sandalwood fumes.
