The traditional Halloween witch—
A crooked back that lurches—slow,
Her toothless mouth, a twisted stitch.
A figure mocked by all who know—
This image tells of a darker fate.
For witches, once just women plain,
A caricature born of hate—
dragged to dungeons, chained in pain—
taken in the dead of night,
to secret rooms, the questions came—
their beauty is hidden from the light.
Confession spoke, but none the same—
Torture’s hand would twist their cries.
The crowds would see the aftermath,
Fear and agony in her eyes.
A face disfigured by the wrath.
The witch, a monster, bruised and lean,
Her hair, ripped from the roots, her face—
from fists that struck, unseen, obscene.
Her spirit broken— of mercy— no trace.
They jeered her as they watched her go,
To hang or burn, her soul to save.
But none could know the depths of woe
that carved the features of the brave.
And so, each year you might shed tears,
For her, the witch in the Halloween parade,
For she is a symbol of our darkest fears—
of what cruel hands and hearts have made.
Might you honor her with reverence true,
this witch who bears history’s scar?
If she or if them, what would you do?
this tall tells of who we were, we are.
WoPoLi 
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