History is testimony to the atrocities that have been meted out unjustly to the poor and weak in society. Women have unfortunately gotten the worst of the deal. While it is important to look forward and be proud of the accomplishment women have achieved thus far, it is equally important to look back and pay heed to history. For history repeats itself. Unfortunately, women have been burnt under the guise of religion, ritual and faith around the world in distant and recent past.

This poem is written in 3 parts and is loosely based on the Witch trials that took place in colonial Massachusetts between February 1692 and 1693, famously known as the Salem Witch trials. I decided to add Prequel and a Sequel to my exisiting poem called “The Witch”, since I thought it was imperative to end my poem on a positive note and show, that no matter how monstrous an act may be, it cannot shatter the hope and faith of the innocent.

i. The Girl

In the green valley betwixt the far mountains,
There once lived a little girl,
Sheba of the pastures, meadows and fountains,
Apple of her father’s eyes; peerless pearl

She had magic in her hands,
Her childhood companions; animals and birds,
She could cure the blight of any cursed land,
Blithely hopping in the wilderness on her fleeting sojourns.

Her father taught her to catch a game,
To make a clean kill, causing no fear nor pain,
To shoot a perfect arrow, or a wild animal to tame,
She would be the greatest witch; this was preordained.

But little did she foresee, that her father whom she adored,
Would be lost to her while killing a wild boar,
For the beasts feral power did he mistakenly underscore,
And thus came she to live orphaned in the meadows evermore.

ii. The Witch

There once lived a woman, alone on the mountain top,
So infamous, that no child strayed past in play or in jest,
lest she may drop, the child in her burning black pot,
The pot that brewed magic potions and evil in her breast.

So wicked was she, to Satan did she pray,
And cast her dark spells on the village,
Condemning the people to die of plague,
Countless souls did she and Satan pillage,

Until one night, tired of her afflictions, the villagers did hunt,
with pitchforks and torches, her hut did they burn,
But the sly woman fled, rather than confront,
Her home razed and the meadows burned for her never to return.

“O’ Magistrate, ’tis sad they should hate, what they do not understand,
And slander the innocent, beat the weak,
No magic potions, no evil spells did I brew, upon this blessed land,
All I hoped was to undo, the pain of the poor and hurt of the meek,

These wild herbs, some prayers and my two hands,
is all I used to cure,
yet they slander me, banish me from my meadow lands?
‘Tis as well the birds warned me, & I fled alone and obscure”

The magistrate believed her doleful story,
yet to the gallows did he her send,
For what else could he have done? On him the masses would have turned,
With knives and pitchforks, tempestuously burned!

Why do they hate that which they fear?
To hate than to reason, to kill than to save; is hardly a glitch,
To the gallows did she leave, with a prayer and a tear,
While the crowds in unison sang, “Burn the Wicked Witch”

iii. Spring Equinox

The Bewildered village elders saw,
On the third day from the day the witch was burned,
Unexplained happenings, around the time of the spring equinox,
Even as the plague gnawed the lives of men & women spurned.

While the witch breathed no more,
Her name spread across the village and woods like wildfire,
A song echoed the hamlet, sung by the blind troubadour,
The louder he sang, the lesser the plague harangued the shire.

“The witch still lives, in the woods and daisies,
The mountains and the meadows echo her songs,
You can chose to hide the truth,
But truth rings louder than any church gongs”

And the hapless Magistrate saw,
His little girl emulate the ways of the witch,
She prayed to mother earth, and her powers from nature did draw,
And hundreds of witches came out of their shadows the old church to ditch,

Never again shall mother earth be defiled, or a woman burned,
The clergy men saw with disdain, a revolution churn,
Rumors spread, that believers have seen the Father and daughter return,
To the green valley, around this time of the Spring equinox.

P.S- This poem including all original works on this blog unless explicitly stated are © copyrighted to Ubecute 2014.