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  • vendredi 14 février 2014

    The Prophecy

    A dark blue haze has fallen down nearby.
    Deep mist all over the forest. See the black outlines
    of fir trees, like tall shadows against the twilight sky.
    Not far from here have appeared other signs.

    Since the last solstice, something has sneaked into the wood,
    A hidden presence which makes the tree bark creak.
    Silent whispers ripple holy water and scares the priesthood.
    On the church's steeple, a crow has been here for a week.

    At night, we can hear eerie laughter and voices shrill,
    roaring from the outside, at first intense and suddenly still.
    Grating sounds flying off madly, like bats or crying banshees.

    On the edge of the wood, a foreign shape appeared at dawn;
    surrounded by the morning fog, I hardly recognized Sean.
    I hurried home when suddenly there blew a cold breeze.

    “It cannot be,” said my father, in a voice so anguished,
    when we learnt that other villages had been attacked.
    As we were going out, my brother had vanished
    and we all knew that She had come to make a pact.

    A bloodstained prophecy whose words were intertwined
    on ancient parchment pages, predicted rotten withered skins,
    and undead callers reappearing, summoned by the sick mind
    of a long-gone witch, coming back to unleash nameless sins.

    And so were written the time-worn words,
    shining as if they had been written in fresh blood
    or formed by a quill as sharp as swords.

    If you catch sight of Her,
    keep silent, open your eyes,
    Or in her cauldron she would stir
    your bones, along with snakes and flies.

    In the forest, She spreads the pox.
    Move like a snail, and She is a starving bird,
    Run like a vole, and She is a hungry fox.

    Nowhere is safe among the rocks
    covered with moss and dust.
    Flowers with eyes, trees with locks,
    Do not give anyone your trust.

    Dragonflies turned into moths,
    dead branches claw like wild spiders
    tearing your clothes, leaving froth
    on your hair, caught in their iron wires.

    At night, when the Winter Moon is high,
    you can hear the owls calling Her name,
    warning us that She hunts nearby.

    If you see a spectre, you can start praying
    for it is part of Her poisonous game :
    wherever you go, She shall be your undoing.

    As I recited the words, the dark blue haze had spread.
    On the steeple, the crow started cawing loudly and then flew away.
    I hid myself in the church, stifled by the foul air which led me astray.
    There She was, striding among the pews, the beautiful Witch of Nightshade.

    Her plaited hair, like a wreath on Her forehead, was so long
    It seemed to be some dark waterfall flooding all over the ground.
    Butterfly wings made Her mourning dress, as bleak as some evensong.
    She whispered : “Your destiny and mine are forever bound”.

    “Come with me and the haze will vanish. You do not belong here.
    Leave the parish and succeed me in my great mischief, to exude death & fear.
    Let's make a deal, join me: I took residence in the wood, in the Old Mill.
    Do not resist me, and no blood shall tint the neighbouring rill !”

    Thin cyan scars snaked on Her pale lips waiting for my answer,
    but I was not afraid, Her presence looked strangely familiar.
    Then spoke I : “Why should I be your heiress in hell ? Why have you come so far ?”
    She replied  :  “Oh my dove, I am no liar, you are my sole heir, my only daughter.”

    These heavy words fell to the ground and smashed to smithereens,
    which showered my face like thousands of small icy crystal leaves.
    My lips burnt, my skin whitened, my blood turned as thick as sap,
    in a heartbeat, we were in the Old Mill, I had fallen into Her trap.

    Un grand merci à 
    Paddy et Brendan pour leur précieuse aide.
    A big thank-you to 
    Paddy and Brendan for their precious help.

    Février 2014 Marie Sullivan

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