I call to Litavis of the golden sands,
goddess who stands upon the shore, the white surf
lapping at your feet; yours are the between-lands,
the border that sunders realm from realm, the first breath
of the newly-born, the visions of those near death.
Goddess, yours is the moorland, the good black dirt,
the root and stone within; yours are the vanished tales,
the blood and bone of many tribes; yours is the voice
we hear when the wind is high, the comfort we know
in the darkest night, the joy we find in home
and family. O mother, I thank you for blessings
long known, for gifts long understood; I praise your might.