Dusk breaks over the greyness of day
the clouds barring sunshine
barring the joy that should be mine
dread fills me as the shadow falls
creeping toward me like a million insects
fresh with the hunger of the Call
as another night descends.

Distant is the hope I once relaxed in,
and far gone are the warm summer months.
Imbolg calls to us,
with the icy voice of the dead and dying.