The Hag knelt before the healer, pleading his help,
He saw her sad pain & her pitiful plight, he duly felt,
And within the moonlit circle of those Ancient stones,
He whispered to his Gods & tossed his telling bones.
Dear old Crone, your crooked feet I may surely heal,
I can mend your knees that may hurt when you kneel,
Your back I may straighten & your eyes I´ll fix to see,
Your old hands I´ll bend to pray, just give them to me.
Hag, bent & old, upon cracked knees, praying & kneeling,
Begging the healer for his compassionate good healing,
The healer chanted chants, while stirring strong potions,
Bringing forth magic, in his unguents & mystical lotions.
Around the calling-gold-fire, of magic & licking red flames,
Evoking the Ancestors & calling out their known names,
The healer told the old Hag, “That by the sign of the runes,
Your heart may only be healed, by the blood of old moons”.