by Robert F. Potts
Witch, I whisper. Beautiful is she
Among the dappled woodlands of the night.
She stands before the altar, radiant sight,
A stunning priestess of the Goddess Three.
Witch, they hiss, in streets of filthy towns
At she who brought the herbs and healed the child.
They wanted drafts of love and potions wild
But now make signs behind their velvet gowns.
Witch, they laugh, you'll talk before we're through.
You'll tell us what you did and who you saw.
You'll tell us how you followed Satan's law.
Give the rack another turn or two.
Witch, they growl, from courtroom bench on high
At the broken lady driven near insane
By priestly tests and tortures, bent in pain.
Witch, they shout, tomorrow you will die!
Witch, they sneer, and laughing pile the wood
About the chains which hold the priestess tight
Against the stake. She waits in quaking fright
Who proud before the pagan altar stood.
Witch, She whispers. In Her gentle arm
The Goddess holds my lady safe tonight.
The pagan priestess sleeps in Goddess light
At last beyond the Inquisition's harm.
