Wednesday, 18 June 2014


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”.


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