Though the ways of men are often told,
No one has told of this love grown old;
No one knows of this sorrow inside,
Now, that the sacrifice has lived and died.

Like a High Priestess, before the altar, stood
This guardian of beauty, her hands stained with blood.
My blood. My life. Always as one;
Lost forever, forever now gone.

There was the moon in its frame, the sky.
The lamb on the stone waiting to die.
I knew nothing. I arrived unprepared
To watch the death that no one else dared.

Before me, before that very cold stone,
Was my Priestess of Beauty, standing alone.
The knife in her hand, waiting to swoop
On the neck of the lamb, waiting to droop.

Shining, flashing, it tore through the air
To strike at the lamb, lying quietly there.
Then there was silence filling the night.
Gone was the lamb. There was no fight.

Now she is gone, leaving the stone.
The lamb too, is gone; picked to the bone.
Where are you now My Goddess of Light?
Where is my priestess, out in the night?