The Ancients


Last Updated: 21 years The drums beat,

The rattles call,

The flames of fire grow tall.

Tis wisdom of the ancients

We do call. The Dance and Sacred Song

Grow to a fevered pitch.

Flames lick the night sky,

Hauntingly painted faces go by,

Sweat rolls down upon the desert ground.

Mystical answers are sought

From the stars which fill

The vastness of the dark sky.

What shall our path be

Oh, Spirit Guide?

To live in a world

Which only wishes us to die?

Our ways shall come back–

A terrible vengeance

Upon you shall be laid.

For now we wait,

Our Spirits in dormancy lie

Till the Ancient ones awaken

And hearken to our CRY!