The witch in the deep forest
lifts her gaze to the moon.
Its light is sharp—like a blade of frost—
and draws a pale veil across her past.
A tower gleams beneath the moon.
And under the tower:
lambs, one after another,
cloaked in whiteness,
their hymns sweet as snowmelt.
The shepherdess, soft-eyed and bright,
sips from a spring drenched in moonlight,
and watches the wind tangle in silver grass.
She looks only upward—
seeking the pure light overhead—
and prays to be kept from darkness,
to be held, forever,
in happiness untouched by shadow.
But —
whose song charms the sky?
Whose form gleams with grace?
The lambs, dazzled,
fix their eyes on the moon
and queue to become it—
to be moonlight.
Not—
the one the moon has touched with death,
left shattered,
spoiled,
unseen,
a ruin mud hidden beneath the trees.
At the edge where the city meets the hills,
A village leans into twilight.
Beyond a crumbling wall,
a well just opens its throat.
Two women sit beside it:
One wrinkled deep,
creased like old bark—
the other, flushed with youth,
colors blooming still.
One cooks.
One washes.
The young woman glances,
her eyes sharp with scorn.
The old one is covered in age—
in folds, in the scent of endings.
The girl wrinkles her nose,
and returns to chewing.
The crone, in turn, watches her
with hunger and desire.
She measures the girl’s years, hips, breath,
while her hands move—
quiet, practical—over jars and dried bread.
Each holds a flatbread in her palm.
Each harbors her own design,
her mind heavy with silence.
The moon sees them.
The stars see them.
At dusk,
the young woman bids the old one farewell.
But the rams appear—
antlered, silent, sudden.
They summon the witch.
They bring the night.
When the sun rises the next morning,
a old corpse lies beside the well.
The young woman is gone.
Once more,
as before.
The moon and stars sigh.
The river sighs.
The witch sighs.
In the shadowed wood, a mother and daughter press on, arm in arm,
For rumors tell of a witch approaching their hamlet,
And they must journey far from home.
The path to the city, thick with thorns,
Birds and beasts and snares—a trial to bear.
Yet still they press forward,
Clinging close, as if the next breath may be their last together.
The mother speaks,
"Thou art my heart and wish,
The very thread of my life,
And the unending beat within my breast.
My road ends before thine own;
How can I bear to let thee go?"
The daughter replies,
"Thou art my root and haven,
The pilot of my being’s birth,
And my abiding peace.
Though I am bound to journey far,
How can I be without thee?"
With starlight and dew of dawn,
They climb the mountainside together,
Supporting one another,
Despite the path’s hard way,
They press forward, clinging close,
As if the next breath may be their last together.
Witch,
Thou hast taken her docility—
Made her cling unto me,
Taught her stealing the man in my bed.
“Put on the gown,” thou saidst,
“And thou shalt wear my vanished youth.”
Go forth—gather men,
Trade thy beauty for their gold.
Witch,
Thou hast stripped her kindness,
She dares not drive away father nor brother,
Yet strikes at me like a snarling beast.
Wear the gown,
I become an arranged thing,
A silken ornament, owned and adorned,
Each inch of flesh priced and paid.
Witch, I ask thee—
Didst thou too wear a gown of white,
Or bind thy hair with flowers pale?
Were thy carved chests stuffed with silk,
Thy golden box locked with jewels?
......Was it glory, or a cage?
Witch, I ask thee again—
Who am I?
Who art thou?
Am I thy echo?
Or art thou mine?
The witch drifts where the shadows dwell,
Under your deep heart,
Bears no name and no trace.
She was daughter.
She was mother.
She died for chastity.
She died giving birth.
Yet never knew the warmth of an embrace.
The gears in dark, gnash and grind.
The molten dusk glows like dawn afar,
The river in dream,
She shall ne’er reach.
Look not at me.
Measure me not.
Gaze not, pry not.
Strive I may—
The wheels grind on.
Birth, death, and birth anew,
An endless wall that circles all.
A loop with no edge,
A wall with no door,
Turning, grinding in ceaseless sound,
A prison none may flee or leave.
No escape, no release,
Thus is she born again.
Eden, enclosed by this wall.
Pale Dew, Pale Path,
The way of those who've passed...
What trembled on your lips that final breath?
Is living’s weight heavier than the deep?
Or is death’s ache lighter than life’s weeping breath?
Dost thou lie in river’s mud,
Or dost thou hang in weeds?
Is the current gentle,
Or rough as it pulls thee down?
Does thy hurt bloom where the currents kiss?
Is peace a lily in thy still breast grown?
Stars float on night’s breath,
Yet drown in the river’s dark.
Let not sink,
but to gleam above,
For stars...
are meant to shine in heaven’s vault.
_END_