A woman with but one live child,
Of eight she had begun,
Cannot understand what haunts her
As a good Christian one.
She asks of she who can speak death
To raise them and ask why.
They dance in the woods in moonlight
Some dreaming they can fly.
Barbados songs of death are sung,
Into the pot go the spoils.
A young girl with undying lust,
Denied the fruit of toils.
This young girl gone crazy with love,
Tastes red of chicken blood.
Impatient with the spirit world.
Not waiting for her stud.
The preacher comes to see the dance
Girl screaming in her fear.
If they had been found out tonight,
End of it is not near.
Lover’s sister now cannot wake.
Eyes are closed, simply still.
The preacher knows of what they’ve done
Refusing to speak ill.
Devil work suspected in this
He will not lose his church.
And there the little girl lie,
Without twitch, nor a lurch.
He who sees himself of power,
Comes when he hears the news.
His own daughter also sleeps deep.
She of eight sees to weep.
Fingers point to she who serves them.
Death speaker, colored skin.
Blame is thrown at the lonely slave.
They covet unproved sin.
Tries to say, she sees no devil.
They won’t believe a witch.
She would confess, but just to guilt.
Saying lies she would snitch.
Many would hang; a tragic sight.
Some good Christian old folk.
Young girls, hiding from their actions,
Proclaim from necks they’d hang.
One man who Lover loves so dear,
Would stand against the noose
To end the lies of these young girls
Through her try to seduce.
Fingers point at this young man,
A threat to their good name.
He could take their sainthood away.
Stripping them of their fame.
In joy and sorrow, one repents.
Lover’s love is now barred.
She plans to save him, run away.
Young man would rather see her charred.
He won’t confess to those in black.
And so on scaffold stands.
They pray to God for one last time.
Tight ropes, cracked necks, cold hands.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem