Hail speckled wind that
Wails and whistles ‘mongst
Pines rough to the touch,
Scented, straight, awaiting,
Prepares a mood of doom
For the party now
Approaching, devout and
Deadly, bearing flesh
For the God of the
Holy noose and spear.
The time for choosing
Erupts afore thee, pray,
Ride this rite or thy
Eyes avert, never to know
If sacrifice wins
Divine advice.
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