They don’t know you
You, who are ancient
With memories written upon your bones
Sacred, older than the hills
Your light kept hidden under your witch’s robes
They can’t hear you
Your whispered words
They can’t see you, wandering the woods
Because you’re the forgotten, the sinful, the willful
The one they erased with their sacrosanct swords
But you won’t be extinguished – mystic’s child
Your footsteps will haunt us and awaken our tribe. © r&m/m.c.

photo/pinterest/anna sychowicz