When, on the morning after
the witches' sabbat, the Horned
leads us up out of the woods and,
to the singing of meadowlarks,
mounts the horizon and,
lambent with white flame,
disappears over the edge,
I've always wondered whether
he sinks down into Earth
or walks off into the Sky,
or maybe both;
but now I know.
I, Steven of Prodea,
Steven son of Russell,
with my own eyes have seen
the Gates of Heaven swing
wide to admit him, and lo!
to the sounding of horns
and trumpets he entered in,
and lo! the gates were shut.
This with my own lips I tell you,
and what I tell is true.
Myth meets myth.