The wind pierces through the trees,

As the moonlights channels through the mind.

The goddess asks, the goddess recieves.

Four beavers, four prey.

"I wish my bones were theirs..."

the deer whispers in the cold woods

"to feel her embrace, her touch."

craving, standing by the four fools.

Hanging by the trees they were.

Bleeding by the deer's wound,

they embraced their creator

to be the voice of his moon.

Trees surround the rear deer,

Beavers surround the full moon.

Her light reflects the blood on the rune

the deer carved in hopes to witness Cynthia's bloom.