THE WITCHES' GORE

By A.N. Szymanski

In the fire’s shadow, we stand,

Voices choked by an outstretched hand.

Burned at the stake, but not the soul—

A flame devours, but we remain whole.

The wind howls through the endless night,

Chains of light lash deep, drawn tight.

A cruel decree, a bitter wail,

A truth erased, a silence frail.

We were not devils, nor cursed with sin,

But those who dared to look within.

A spark too bright, a power too pure—

And for that, we burned, unsure.

Our hands held herbs, ancient lore,

But they saw only witchcraft’s gore.

The moon wept for us, the earth did too,

As flames stole everything we knew.

Smoke suffocates, the air turns thick,

Flesh to ash, bones turning slick.

The fire feasts, but cannot claim

The spirit within—our eternal flame.

For every soul who burned in vain,

Their bodies fell, but not their pain.

In every scream, in every cry,

Their voices echo, they will not die.

What they destroyed, we resurrect,

From every wound, from every regret.

Time may try to bury our name,

But we rise unbroken, unearthed, untamed.

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