A dark poem of witches' revenge
|Deep in the woods on a moonlit night,
I was drawn to a flicker of firelight,
glimpsed through giant columns of oak and pine.
“What were you doing there,” you say,
“in the dark of night, not in the day,
and away from your bed so safe and warm and fine?”
Rumors, I’d heard, tales of fascination,
of naked maidens, and my imagination
led me forth as the farmer leads the stupid kine.
I heard musical voices as I crept nearer,
the kind of music that causes the hearer
to shiver, and quickly wipe his sweaty hands.
Shadows leapt high, from tree to tree,
and then in the clearing I could finally see
a vision straight from tales of the fairy lands.
Beauty and lust and witches’ passion,
long black tresses in free-flowing fashion
and ribbons tied to their wrists in woven bands.
I suppose I fainted and fell to the ground,
for when I awoke, my limbs were bound
to a post that was set in the pool of flickering light.
They danced all around me, brandishing knives,
spitting and cursing the very lives
of men who would dare invade their sacred night.
And even as they cursed, and danced, and spit
I could still feel the tiniest little bit
of lust rising hot in my loins, despite my fright.
They cut me to pieces, and now I’m dead.
And so ends my tale of wonder and dread
and my blood seeps into the roots of their sacred trees……