We sit, my brother, atop the sacred hill, on derelict ruins, of modernity.
I see the cougars prowl, by the light of a thousand, thousand stars.
Five, the beat we pound on timeworn drums. Five, the voice of pond frogs echoes back. Five, the laughter we share beneath a blanket of fog. Five, the fawn prances in the thick breath of night. Five!
Drum, my brother, drum, as if you've never drummed before, Drum for the splendid silver gloom of midsummer, Drum for the glory of Wy'East! Drum for the glory of Wy'East!