Daughters of the Moon,
children of the Night,
rise like dew together
until the morning's light.
The owl's cry is our anthem,
our altar is the sky.
The Great Mystery is our Mother
to whom now, sisters, fly.

Louise Hawes

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There may come a time when you will wish you had never tasted the fruit from the tree of knowledge. There may even come a time when you will lie about who took the first bite.

Louise Hawes

Mots clés original-sin a-flight-of-angels louise-hawes

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