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Rotting beneath my feet in the leaves you shift and shudder, ancient goddess, who’s death dealing daughters, the Crossroad Witch, the Underworld Queen, the Arrow Pouring Huntress, all call to me in visions and claim me as their own, for you.  All healing from my hands will come from knowledge of the death you bring and all your children will return to you, your soil is the casket and the leaves are the funeral attire and the worms prepare us like attendants, even though we long ago stopped caring for our dead.  Your children of madness and ecstasy dance at the edges of my mind, the Vine and the Star, and they call to me and threaten one day to take me to you in madness and in joy and I will praise them to praise you, my shuddering Earth Queen ancient in your slumber.