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.
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