Alone, I pour the mead,
no circle gathered round,
no answering voices
to catch the prayer I’ve loosed.

The gods are distant fire,
the wights a whispering hush,
and yet my heart still calls
as if the air might listen.

I trace the old paths barefoot,
though none walk at my side,
Nerþum remembers better
as she keeps the tread of all.

Roots beneath me hold the songs
of kin whose tongues are dust,
and when I breathe their names aloud
the wind replies with warmth.

Loneliness is a cold flame,
but it does not consume.
The Silver Well is deep, my threads are strong,
though woven out of sight.

Hope lives in small devotion
the candle’s steady glow,
the raven that lands at dawn,
the breath between each word.

No hall need hold our voices,
no feast our every rite
for wyrd has bound us subtly
across the hidden years.

Stand firm beneath Tīw’s sky,
where Sunne and Mōna still turn.
In silence, you are many
and the unseen hosts are near.