Over the baleful wind of that cold night
In fourteen eighty-eight, I heard the flight
Of disturbèd birds as they passed beyond
My eyes. There was a cry which could abscond
The Devil’s breath, for it held a great spice
Of malicious enmity, and a trice
Was enough to let it be spat into
The ears of ev’ry villager, and through
The judgement of each council. They screamed: Witch!
And hauled a young woman into the rich
Darkness. Their torches illuminated
Her eerily, and watching her weighted
Glow I could see why they had accused so.
I knew her be anything below
A normal Christ-follower but the flames
From the dim light lit her with some strange aims.
I watched her tried and judged, I saw her tied
Upon a stake, I stared as she was fried
With the merciless product that thing
Called ignorance and the fear which does sting
Us with it. She was not a witch. She could
Not have been, yet I held my words for should
I have said my doubt, I would sure stammer
Under the gaze of The Witch’s Hammer.
End.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Daegal, a magnificent piece of writing. Love, Fran xx