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”.
No comments:
Post a Comment