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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 tune will lift the autumn leaves
We see the horned one, we see his shape assume
The form of laughing wines and sandalwood fumes
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