The snow was deep and pace was slow, the frost was in his bones.
He came upon the witch’s horse, as twilight took its own.
A liquid shine came off its skin, its mouth was dripping foam.
Below its feet a mass of twigs would mark the witch’s home.
Gnarled and broken fingers pressed up through the twigs and roots.
With flies emerged the forest queen, beside the preacher’s boots.
She walked in circles very slow, around the shaking man.
From her side she freed a bag, with nimble crippled hands.
Out the drawstring hole there stuck, the beak with lizard tongue.
The witch of queens then said “commence, the setting of the sun”.
From high noon the yellow star, filled with clouds of black.
The witch then pulled the prophet bird out from the leather sack.
When she set it free to fly the lichen in the trees.
Grew until it touched the ground, and sang cacophonies.
Above his head within the dark, the fluttering of wings.
Was much too loud for birds or bats, and was of larger things.
The dwarven ember in the sky shone new upon the land.
The forests veil was then revealed to be of the left hand.
The preacher knew that he was trapped, amid the witch’s world.
He would pay so dearly for what the albino told.
He travelled through the hair like drape, ahead the crow it flew.
Deeper still and led the man remaining just in view.
He lost his sight of what he sought, and fell into a rut.
The only thing that he could feel was now his aching gut.
His satchel bore no food instead, the leaf of horrors lore.
Curled like the other two, were corners three and four.
The man had seen and felt too much, throughout his deathly roam.
He turned and tracked his prints in snow, and set his sights for home.
His hopes had died when he looked down, and mournfully he saw.
In every footprint he had left, was one of wolven paw.
He lay onto his back and watched the fifth point twist and die.
The sun still shone obsidian from midpoint in the sky.

---

Teksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.