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Friends young and old, gentle and strong.
Whos heart was pure, and soul was white, lingered here.
He has gone to the shores of our fathers.
Forever to bathe in the stars above us...
To sleep in the curved arms in the moon, that illuminates our path when darkness has shed it's dark blood.
Do not weep, my dear friends. Not all tears are for endings.
For he has strayed out of the curse of pain and time.
No words by god nor friend will ease his passing...
Only the knowledge that we will all gain, in knowing he will be ok.
And that he is here. Living within every memory that burns within all of us.
Our tears will drip into the pond, and let us offer our tears to the moon.
They will cover the ground.
This will be our ceremony for the great white stag.
Our ceremony of passing...
We will find our dear Son of The Moon, whenever the snow flies...
Or when we see a distant friend.
When we fall upon a sleepless night, we will raise our heads to the sky, to find him watching over us.
His white fur, shimmering in the night.
His kind smile offering a prayer. And fellowship.
His life has burned a white path that shows what a pure heart can do.
And what all can do in this life.
His voice will call us.
And it is then, when we may see our friend face-to-face.
Then we will know.
We are free.
