Normale Version: Resurrection
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Something has spoken to me in the night
about the need to shed my skin and bone,
change shape and trust the mercy and the might
of Ceridwen, transformed into the crone.

Cailleach has swung the silver-sickled moon,
at break of dawn the cauldron will be filled
and fired when first light calls forth the tune
of thrush and lark, when essence is distilled.

The eagle soars and swiftly runs the river
away from cairn and dolmen to the ocean
of many names that causes us to shiver
for fear of losing self and sense and motion.

They say he is a threshold, not the end,
the boatman waiting at the riverbend.