In the whispers of the ancient grove,
where moonlit shadows dance and weave,
the circle forms, a boundless trove
of secrets that the night conceives.
Step lightly, seeker, tread with care,
for every whisper holds a tale,
a rite of passage, masked in air,
a journey forged in sun and pale.
Beyond the veil, the stars align,
their silver threads, a path to mark.
Through trials borne of blood and vine,
awaken now, from dream to spark.