The Burning of Women
In darkest times, when fear held sway,
A cruel and twisted tale would play.
Of women deemed both strange and vile,
Accused of witchcraft, doomed to guile.
Too beautiful, too bold, too free,
A threat to all, they seemed to be.
With water wells or birthmarks marked,
Their innocence was quickly barked.
Herbal wisdom, a dangerous art,
A witch’s power, from the start.
Too loud, too quiet, red of hair,
A target for their accusers’ snare.
With nature’s bond, a witch’s might,
To dance and sing, a sinful sight.
Sisters turned, their babies chilled,
Accusations wild, their minds instilled.
Tortured children, forced to lie,
Of witches’ deeds, a mournful cry.
In water dunked, to test the fate,
If they would float, they met their fate.
If they would sink, then they were free,
But death awaited, by land or sea.
From cliffs they fell, in holes they sank,
A gruesome end, for women’s rank.
Years of famine, war’s dark hand,
A fearful world, a troubled land.
The church declared, with wicked glee,
Of witches, demons, and the sea.
A scapegoat found, a target clear,
A woman’s worth, held in such fear.
Her sexuality, a dark and sin,
The witch trials’ core, where horrors begin.
Why do I write, this mournful tale?
To break the silence, to prevail.
To bring to light, the hidden truth,
And give these women, a guiding youth.
To heal the wounds, of ages past,
And honor those, who were outcast.
To give them voice, redress, and peace,
And let their spirits find release.
It was not witches who burned, you see,
But women, victims of cruelty.

© etechnocrats