Deep within Black Mountains, there is a sacred place,
Where waterfalls cascade, down ancient rocky face,
The place where creeping ivy & small lime trees grow,
A small little haven, to where witches teardrops flow.
Pwll-Y-Wrach, those pools, where sad old witches died,
Where those Holy men of God, all Crones, unfairly tried,
For simply deeds of magic & their healing with all herbs,
Drowned them for their sins; their souls turned into birds.
Waters flowing onto ancient stones, & silken silted mud,
Old ruby sandstone, the red, of murdered witches’ blood,
That place of butterfly orchids & harridan´s pleading wails,
The pools of men´s shame, lost beneath cold & stony shales.