By: Anton Lymarev, English BA
Illustration: Stellar Leunar.
“The witch!” – they cried in terror, –
“She’s coming back for us!”
Blam! Flood of scarlet, hemorrhage
From scattered body parts.
A feast of rot abundance
That used to be a town
Has formed a deadly aura
Around her sullied gown.
They ran, they sobbed and tried to hide,
But all was done in vain
They dared to hurt the woman’s pride,
And now they died in pain.
They tried to burn her, run amok,
And tied her to a post.
A deacon led his lively flock;
He was to pay the first.
She lived and raged, and got away
She healed her deadly wounds,
And once, before the dawn of day,
She burned the deacon’s roost.
The flames have spread along the wood
Like butter on the bread.
The holy man who did no good
Was soon among the dead.
And when the local folk began
To gather ’round the fire,
She vanished like a hooligan
With dark and grim desire.
The smell of victim’s burning flesh
Has pushed her to the edge.
She pierced the crowd – yet still abashed,
With rage that’s fully fledged.
And after all the bloody wrath
She stopped, and, startled, stayed,
Strayed reminiscing of the path
That she could not negate.
As of before, she had a man
Who gave her all his heart,
And only death itself could then
Split both of them apart.
And so it did; the grief has cast
In full its mighty spell –
The pain had stripped her to the bone,
Her tears could fill the well.
And when the town folk beheld
Her mourning over him,
They all have risen pitching forks
Against the gown so grim.
The deacon yelled: “Ungodly sin!
Ye should not wear such gown!
Visage of yours scares all my kin.
No witch shall haunt this town!”
‘Tis the bereavement of the maid
That was the fate’s first blow,
But it’s the crowd’s blinded hate
That made with awe her glow.
“So what’s the moral”, you may ask,
“of such a morbid tale?
Was it supposed to bring the dusk
into my brightened day?”
“What lesson’s hidden deep within?
What is the point, mate?”
I’ll tell you – fear the raging queen!
The one you may create.