The Coven
Why brought they flowers to a witch's grave
With greening foliage and color bursts,
With drab, dark pigments that white lilies save?
Nail tight the coffin, Lest we all be cursed.
Atop the new grave, the bouquet was laid.
By morn the flowers have withered to black.
Wafting of chants on wind's organ is played,
While gale of rebirth is calling her back.
The scent of perfume has become hot steam
Where heat of the day swelters the foul ground.
Escape impossible! So it would seem.
Yet casket's empty and witch is unfound.
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