Acte-of-Fayth – Annie Chantraine

Þe Hunt
dead trees provide no shade,
none for slumbersome feet.
moonless night, palpable
tension. silence to snap,
like a cord if disturbed,
like ice if thin enough.
with flickering light, flame
flirts and distorts faces
razor thin blades sharpen
to slice air tasting of
ash and cinder, blood, hate

Þe Chāce
guided by bloody scent,
missteps and broken words,
torches cut through cold mist.
fasts broken as we chase,
break fast into dark nights
our feast will soon begin.
virgins, maidens, chaste, chased
slights and fights. struggle, you!
wrest yourself from my arms,
and the noose shall tighten.
righteous might, find who hide

þe fīr
dead trees provide holy light
no evil can escape
the Eye, the Sword, the Hand!
flesh exalted, flesh reviled
frenzied bloodshot screams
ash wood soon turns to ash,
in cruel heat, coldest ice.
purge us, Father, their sins
purge us, Fire, our guilt
no martyrs, no saviours
no martyrs, no saviours