|“John William Waterhouse – Magic Circle” by John William Waterhouse – Tate Britain. Licensed under Public Domain via Wikimedia Commons – http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:John_William_Waterhouse_-_Magic_Circle.JPG#/media/File:John_William_Waterhouse_-_Magic_Circle.JPG|
He struck her, towards the forest she was dragged.
The moon was witness to the woman’s plight,
On the eve of that Walpurgis Night.
He unsheathed his sword, his eyes were cold,
She mumbled her last words, the future she foretold.
“I shall meet you again, reward you I must.
A soirée awaits, it begins, only just.”
His mighty sword dealt the fatal blow
That’s how the witch fell ages ago.
The valiant soldier wiped his bloodied blade,
The price of heresy, the woman had paid.
He said a solemn prayer by the sacred well,
One and all would remember the day she fell.
He removed her rings, her beautiful locket,
He shoved her into the well, the jewellery in his pocket.
With a glint of greed and a dash of pride,
Off he went, to his newfound fame he applied.
The Walpurgis Night descended soon,
Witches from across the land began to commune.
They revelled freely upon the Brocken heights,
They chanted their spells and finished their rites.
As the night began to draw to a close,
By the sacred well, a young witch froze.
They all gathered around the sacred well,
“Daughters of magic, we must invoke a sacred spell.
Our sister is taken much before her time,
The murderer must be punished for this crime.”
One by one, they said an ancient prayer,
Each plucked out one strand of hair,
Each wished aloud for their sister fair.
Each gave her part of their souls’ share.
That Walpurgis Night, the slain witch did rise,
Amidst her sisters’ mystical cries.
The arcane verses of the spell made her undead,
“Farewell till we meet again.”, they said.
The witches dispersed as daylight raced with them,
The undead witch cast a spell for a hem.
It stitched her wounds, it sewed her back,
But no spell or stitch could dispel the black.
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