Come, many gather, these are open and long-neglected fields. The grass runs high, the old ruins have become enwooded. Close your eyes and Midgard begins to sing. That place you came from is a land of giants. Here even humble weeds speak whispers and hymns. This is your ancient homeland.
Those stunted refugees who brought you into the wasteland did not know, and meant well. Half-starved and desperate, they could not but utter lies called fairytales miscalled truth and modernity whose hollow shell brittle fed you little. Malnourished you ran robotic as zombies in a daze coughing in midst of smoke.
Long days and hundreds of years since men walked floors wet and muddy and grass-filled of Midgard, hundred-hundred glazed eyes-over in thrall to ent-work, to make the world a larger home for thurs. Yet Gods count hundreds as days ; long has it been for men, while Holy Ones equip the world for renewal. When men rejoin, their power grows. Join the rising strength.
The rootstocks retain beneath soil, foilage long burned off. Once-orphans gather and graft back onto original roots and sap flows fresh. You are welcome.
Long tone-deaf solo rasped, look around : discover choir. Ahem, the ancient birds sing. Ahem, the snakes and mammals cry. Hello, the bugs and herbs cry out. Come back, forgotten ancestors sing. Be blessed, the now-bloted Gods bestow. And be blessed. And blessed, bless back in return, with deeds and sooth words.
Sooth : true to being's beingness. Fidelity to phenomena in all its nuance weird and ravelled. Sooth : speaking being's deep taproot sapflow. Bad spells have been spoken, surfaces glazed and worshipped, chains and locks upon the mind forbidding it to dream, in public. Let now wide nature's fathoms depths speak history through your veins, bones, marrow, brain. Close your eyes and know you have known this, always. The bad spell made you forget, focused your mind on small details in a prison of nonsense. Look around and be baffled : still, the hordes wield bulldozers. Still men march lockstep to pompous orders coming from hollower men. What massive claws slip hollow into those great puppets, I suppose? Sooth is deeper than the policies of men.
Heath awaits : thick, deep grainfields, weedlots, backwoods. Heath calls out and asks, are you a heathen? Would you be?
Orphans orphaned against your will, strong and fruitful, rich and varied Gods of Grove and Star-Acres call out : are you heathen? Would you be?
Then welcome come, and stake your claim. Heathland claims you, wild and welcome.