Our Village Witch
© Surazeus
2018 01 15
We dreaded the coming of the tall man
who always came down from the mountain woods
followed by two wolves and thirty-three ravens
and gave each child in town one writing feather.
He taught the children how to carve their dreams
in jagged Runes on slabs of wood or stone
and then would grow black feathers on their arms
and fly away over the mountain peaks.
But one young girl, instead of growing wings
of light feathers she grew leathery bat wings,
and eyes more red as moonlight on the snow,
and she lurked in the shadows of our rooms.
Each time we opened doors to other rooms
her face would flicker in the flash of sunlight
on the opening door, and then her eyes
would swallow darkness of unspoken sorrows.
She followed the old man with oak moss beard
to live with his wolves in the cave of death
and there she polished stars with tangled hair
so they would shine each night from empty void.
When stars shone too bright to pierce aching hearts
with knowledge that every person will die
she would become storm clouds to hide the stars
so we could remember the warmth of love.
His spirit lives in every ancient tree
who watches me when I gather bird eggs
and whispers thoughts that other people hide
when I gather berries from tangled vines.
She hides behind every tree in the forest,
tracing the path where my feet touch the Earth
so I do not float away to the clouds
and her breeze guides me back to my own home.
When my young son fell sick with ocean fever
I climbed the mountain to their cave of death
and he polished the jewel of the sun
while she mixed mushrooms into healing juice.
She carried me down the mountain of despair
on flapping bat wings through nine broken doors
and when my son drank potion of her blood
he opened three eyes and clutched at my heart.
He sang for seven thousand years strange tale
detailing how the first mother of mankind
crawled along the river from the deep sea
and dreamed our names within the lake of eyes.
She rose from lake of dreams at dawn of time
to mold red sunlight in the apple rind
which weaves raindrops into our throbbing brains
so we know when the Earth first whirled from light.
So, you wicked priest from city of stone,
if you fail to unbind her arms and legs
from your cross of hate, I will cut your throat
with this blade I honed on my honest heart.
You march into our mountain villages,
declaring some old man you call the pope
commissioned you to root out evil witches
and burn them in the fire of your contempt.
If you attempt to burn our village witch
in fire of hate then we will bind your soul
to your despicable cross of contempt
and burn you in your fire of righteousness.
You are wise to release our village witch
from wicked chains of your oppressive law
for she is spirit who protects our homes
and heals our souls with true wisdom of death.
© Surazeus
2018 01 15
We dreaded the coming of the tall man
who always came down from the mountain woods
followed by two wolves and thirty-three ravens
and gave each child in town one writing feather.
He taught the children how to carve their dreams
in jagged Runes on slabs of wood or stone
and then would grow black feathers on their arms
and fly away over the mountain peaks.
But one young girl, instead of growing wings
of light feathers she grew leathery bat wings,
and eyes more red as moonlight on the snow,
and she lurked in the shadows of our rooms.
Each time we opened doors to other rooms
her face would flicker in the flash of sunlight
on the opening door, and then her eyes
would swallow darkness of unspoken sorrows.
She followed the old man with oak moss beard
to live with his wolves in the cave of death
and there she polished stars with tangled hair
so they would shine each night from empty void.
When stars shone too bright to pierce aching hearts
with knowledge that every person will die
she would become storm clouds to hide the stars
so we could remember the warmth of love.
His spirit lives in every ancient tree
who watches me when I gather bird eggs
and whispers thoughts that other people hide
when I gather berries from tangled vines.
She hides behind every tree in the forest,
tracing the path where my feet touch the Earth
so I do not float away to the clouds
and her breeze guides me back to my own home.
When my young son fell sick with ocean fever
I climbed the mountain to their cave of death
and he polished the jewel of the sun
while she mixed mushrooms into healing juice.
She carried me down the mountain of despair
on flapping bat wings through nine broken doors
and when my son drank potion of her blood
he opened three eyes and clutched at my heart.
He sang for seven thousand years strange tale
detailing how the first mother of mankind
crawled along the river from the deep sea
and dreamed our names within the lake of eyes.
She rose from lake of dreams at dawn of time
to mold red sunlight in the apple rind
which weaves raindrops into our throbbing brains
so we know when the Earth first whirled from light.
So, you wicked priest from city of stone,
if you fail to unbind her arms and legs
from your cross of hate, I will cut your throat
with this blade I honed on my honest heart.
You march into our mountain villages,
declaring some old man you call the pope
commissioned you to root out evil witches
and burn them in the fire of your contempt.
If you attempt to burn our village witch
in fire of hate then we will bind your soul
to your despicable cross of contempt
and burn you in your fire of righteousness.
You are wise to release our village witch
from wicked chains of your oppressive law
for she is spirit who protects our homes
and heals our souls with true wisdom of death.
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