They hide the truth,
these gaudy costumes,
the carved lanterns,
the trick or treat.
Reality is macabre,
glossed by lies and pretense.
They fear the truth.
Once, I was revered.
Earth’s power rose within me,
I cured, I foretold,
I held in my soul
the key to life’s mystery,
and the Goddess spoke through my voice.
Once, I was adored.
In those days I could fly…
Yes, really.
But superstition and ignorance
stripped me bare.
Instead, I turn away
and I hide.
Oh, but I could fly!
Fires honoured the dead,
they blessed summer’s end,
witnessed the birth of a year
dark and terrible and new.
They brought light, warmth, hope
to where the darkness was.
Now, they consume the living.
Women like me,
we burn in the flames,
we drown in the bog,
held down by the weight
of our skills, misunderstood.
They hunt us, they hate us,
women like me.
What once made us powerful
thus renders us weak.
The old ways can’t prevent
the onslaught of
the new convictions.
The danger of zealots
makes us only fearful.
I was beautiful, then.
With youth on my side,
and the knowing of the universe
filling my heart.
I was invincible, or so I thought,
until I watched them suffer and die.
I am withered and empty, now.