there is no witchcraft in here,
no Death dancing around Her grave,
She’s resting in solitude
with no hands to pray with,
no feet to put on the ground
no breasts to warm up the night,
no head for Her to be crowned.
and so the blackbirds unite,
to sing their hymns and anthems
for the woman of the living,
and the woman of phantoms.
let Her haunt every village,
chase you around the apple tree
for She died for no man,
She’s now for no man to be seen.
i could see them calling for priests,
and collecting firewood
but believe me- this isn’t witchcraft,
it is only womanhood.