❄️ Morana – Queen of Frost and Rebirth
Goddess of Winter's End, Death, and the Awakening of Spring
Morana, the goddess of winter and death in ancient Slavic tradition, reigns as a force both feared and revered. Each year her effigy was carried, mourned, and cast into water or flame, symbolizing the end of winter's grip and the hopeful dawn of spring. In this long-form poem, we follow the sacred cycle she embodies—the dance of death that gives way to life, the cold that yields to bloom.
She comes not roaring, nor with flame,
but robed in frost, and crowned in bane.
Where Morana walks, the rivers freeze,
and fields fall silent under trees.
Her gown: a weave of brittle snow.
Her breath: a mist the north winds blow.
Her crown: the stars in winter’s keep,
her touch: a summons into sleep.
O Morana, Queen of Still,
we feel your hush on vale and hill.
No beast will birth, no seed will stir,
until we walk the rites of her.
In villages, they stitch your frame—
straw and linen, face without name.
An effigy of human shade,
a vessel of the life decayed.
Children giggle, mothers cry;
bells and songs against the sky.
With woven hands and rivered feet,
they march you to your last defeat.
To the river, to the pyre,
your body cast in water or fire.
Ash or drift, you melt away,
and take with you the frozen day.
The elders bow, the children run,
into the fields to greet the sun.
For death must die to life be born,
and spring must rise from winter torn.
You are the sleep before the stir,
the grave that births the earliest flower.
Your silence seeds the robin’s trill;
your darkness feeds the daffodil.
Morana, dancer at the gate,
who holds both scythe and birthing spade—
we honor you not in spite but awe,
the silent law behind all thaw.
You do not end; you circle back—
from blackened field to seedling’s crack.
In every sprout, your hand we find;
death reaps, but life is close behind.
Even now, though cities sprawl,
and rivers bear no song at all,
the turning earth still knows your name;
in crumbling leaves, in frozen rain.
So come, dark queen, and take your due;
we offer winter back to you.
And as you fall, so shall we rise—
spring laughing through your sacrifice.
Conclusion:
Morana is not merely a figure of death; she is the keeper of transitions, the guardian of cyclical wisdom. Her effigy burns, her figure drowns—but from her dissolution comes renewal. In honoring Morana, we confront the truth that every ending is a beginning in disguise, and life cannot bloom without first surrendering to the frost.