The last traces of winter are burned when the fires of old bedding and dead wood reach toward the sky.
The spirits of darkness are chased away by flames of ancestral tradition as the seeds are sown for the year to come and pigs replaced from winter feasts.
So come the dances which lead so often to winter born souls as plenty grows closer at hand.
And the light of the night is matched with the sun to dark hours so often, so late.
And the drink it comes from its winter aging, kept safe from the frost underground.
And the song and the dance intermingle with laughter and effigies burn in the night.
So come the fires to leave behind the old, so comes the light for crop and game.
The birth of new death and of life.
A prompt response.