When the night comes, the Fae ride.
When the night comes, the hounds howl.
When the hounds howl, the night grows darker.
When the Hunt reigns the night, the Ravens take flight.
Black feathers against pale moonlight,
Glowing white against deep blackness:
Heralds of the Netherworld, guardians of fates, guides of the abyss.
Midwinter changes to midsummer, the Hunt never stops.
From Calan Mai to Nos Calan Gaeaf it traverses the sky.
The Fae journey through the wild expanse of the worldwood,
Their horses step lightly, too lightly for the mortal eye and ear.
The traveling folk knows when to leave; it knows when to come, and when to visit the human villages.
The traveling folk sees all, and all the roads are open to them for the blessing of their king rests upon them.
The Fae ride on, and the silver forests of winter close behind them, glistening in the moonlight.
The Hunt never stays in one place, its routes unknown to the mortals.
The Fae join the Hunt right past the equinox, and their paths join.
The Lord of the Hunt blends into the king of Fae, his crown ember-red, fire-golden, his hair auburn as the fallen leaves.
Ride on, ride on, with the Ravens circling above.
Ride on,ride on, with the hounds yelping and barking at your feet.
Ride on, my king, for long is the day and long is the night, and long is the waiting.
Ride on, my Lord, for the summer is close, and your time is half done.
Ride on, and may your hounds never tire.
Ride on, and may your Ravens never rest.
Until we meet again.