The grass gently waves in the wind It ripples to the edge of the forest A figure appears wreathed in shadow Another and another til the tree line is covered They stand there, as if awaiting a command They begin moving toward the centre of the field The grass gently bends before them The grass harshly smokes behind them The figures converge in the centre Towering above an object in the grass They quietly kneel before it, heads bowed The moon slightly illuminates their dark shape A piercing screech can be heard It quickly rises above the clouds The fingers of the sun fall on the stars Dawn shines on the field and reveals In the centre of the clearing A small wooden cross, alone