The skies above have darkened
The stars have aligned
We're witness to a rite of black magic design
Master of witches
King of the chaos-sphere
Pastoral god whose altar burns with
pagan fear
The Great God Pan
Born behind the stars
The ancients live again
Song of the woodlands
Pan Pipes are crying reeds
His maddened tunes will lift
the autumn leaves
We see the horned-one
We see his shape assume
The form of laughing wines and
sandalwood fumes