A spell misguided, cast askew,
caused fractures felt by one undue;
a chant by amateurs and meant
to bring about unjust intent
will often richochet-return
to she who hopes it's flame will burn
her unsuspecting target - yet
tis' 'pon her door a fire is lit.
The Wiccans whisper wizened words
and feed like seed to hungry birds,
whose flight and song lend wishes wings
to carry spells and magic things
that slowly shames the wretches thought
until, ashamed, she changes plot,
and thus by her own will is forced
to follow best intentions coursed.
None gained by this and none are harmed -
take note and learn from those true charmed.
with greatest cautionary pause,
proceed at risk to own-self cause,
as spells despise most nat'ral laws
and spells mis-spent show sharpened claws.
A Wiccan knows the chants required,
where victims knowledge of transpired
unneeded, if the cause is just -
but first - a Wicken find whose trust
uncharred by funeral pyres lit years
before this era's unshed tears.
TTurrell 122009
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
wording wonder of touch slowely nice...