The Witch Has Arrived

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Abstract

cière…The witch has arrived.They all want to carve a slice out of her Just to have a piece of magic to light up Their dreary and dismal lives. How can she be happy in refusing their Social norms, rejecting husband and children? The teenagers spread rumors about town That she cooks up worms, crow’s feet, Eye of newt, and brains of the hare Because they know she won’t share Her sumptious recipes of apple tarts And vegetetable stews, tea brewed with Love from herbs foraged in the forest, Never buying into the market gruel.She’s well aware of the uninspired, predictable Games of mal-

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intentioned men all throughout The continent and no longer partakes in their Pitiful glances, half-arsed attempts at romance. They grovel and grumble that she’s put a spell on them, The deep-reaching roots of her natural beauty and grace Lock firmly around their untrained, unrestrained hearts. She will not have them, and in their immaturity They’d rather— instead of feeling the burn of rejection — That she be burned at the stake in the public square! Once again, the witch must take up her broomstick, gather What she can from her humble dwelling, and fly Swiftly and silently into the night of the pale white moon.</article></body>

A poem

Wherever she wanders, Leaving her scent of lavender And orange peels as she passes by, She dares not look at anyone directly Through the veil of her raven hair. Their voices whisper worriedly To each other: È una strega! Siehst du die Hexe? Mais, c’est une sorcière…

The witch has arrived.

They all want to carve a slice out of her Just to have a piece of magic to light up Their dreary and dismal lives. How can she be happy in refusing their Social norms, rejecting husband and children? The teenagers spread rumors about town That she cooks up worms, crow’s feet, Eye of newt, and brains of the hare Because they know she won’t share Her sumptious recipes of apple tarts And vegetetable stews, tea brewed with Love from herbs foraged in the forest, Never buying into the market gruel.

She’s well aware of the uninspired, predictable Games of mal-intentioned men all throughout The continent and no longer partakes in their Pitiful glances, half-arsed attempts at romance. They grovel and grumble that she’s put a spell on them, The deep-reaching roots of her natural beauty and grace Lock firmly around their untrained, unrestrained hearts. She will not have them, and in their immaturity They’d rather— instead of feeling the burn of rejection — That she be burned at the stake in the public square! Once again, the witch must take up her broomstick, gather What she can from her humble dwelling, and fly Swiftly and silently into the night of the pale white moon.