The bounteous Moon sets
And the Harvest Sun Rises
On a Golden Dawn
A mist hangs low on the meadow,
Still sparkling with
The nights chill

Ripened Wheat
Glistens and sways
In the arms
Of a warm breeze

Sharpened scythes
Glitter and sway
In the hands
Of expert harvesters

The honed sword
Glints and sways
Purposefully,
In the hand
Of the High Priestess

As the Sun reaches its zenith
The line of scythes swish
Rhythmically
Moving forward as the
Shimmering grain falls

Gathering up the wheat
Into sheaves
We mourn the loss
Of the Corn King
Death begets life
And we start
The new cycle
Of the Harvest Sun