I tire of hearth and home
And chafe at all my "goodness".
How little you know me,
You who gave me this role.
Once I was maiden and untouched
And you called me pure and chaste.
When my time came at last,
You branded me as your porperty.
Now I am old and no longer lovely,
But crones have power of their own.
And nature though long delayed
Will never be denied.
At dawn when I hear the horn,
I will paint my face with woad.
I will bind the sickle to my brow
With blood stiffened leather thongs.
When the stag is brought to bay,
It is I who will let his blood.
The stag will not deny me,
Nor will the Horned One.
Then in the cold of ground,
And in the heat of blood,
I shall at last lie down
With Cerunnos and be fulfilled.