This is the sacred night of Hallowe’en
The Festival of the Dead
And the Mother that was the Maiden
Is now become the Crone.

She is Dame Hecate
The Scribe of Souls
In Whose dread Book of Shadows
All names must be written
With the ebbing blood of Life

She is Dame Hecate
The Broomstick Hag
Whose icy breath shakes us, shivering
From the naked Tree of Life
Which She upends
To sweep us as dead leaves
From Her relentless path

She is Dame Hecate
The Cunning Crone
The Watcher in Shadows
The Reaper of Bones
For the Sun never shines
Nor fair flower blooms
But Her stealthy blade gleams
Just beyond our dearest dreams

She is Dame Hecate
The Old and Wise
With Her Maiden’s eyes
And Her Mother’s sighs
At Her cold sickle’s rise
As our last darkness falls
And our most secret childhood names She calls
To Her bittersweet gift
Of Death.

In token and remembrance of this gift
By which Life renews itself
Do we bring these gifts
And renew ourselves
For we are the Symbol in the Eye
And the reflection in the Mirror
For we are the Goddess
Beholding Herself.