Witchcraft On a Spring Night
Blood is mixed with midnight fog.
The Brocken is aglow with anticipation of candlelight.
Naked skins are redolent with sweat and sweetness.
Daemonic energies and Harz wine, imbibed.
The bacchanalia of the ungovernable commences
with a dagger plunged into the babe’s breast.
A new dawn kicks and screams and gurgles
until it is extinguished.
Only now can the feast begin.