• Her hair, not quite black,
    Lay streaked and flat across her back,
    Perspiration across her feverish brow,
    Shows the need she's feeling now.

    Her eyes, pale-as-water blue,
    Are brighter than comprehended by you,
    Magical almost, I guess by her craft,
    Though all who've seen it have pointed and laughed.

    But this witch will prove them wrong,
    In her robes of blue and black cauldron,
    She speaks with low fervour and might,
    And from her cave issues white light.

    She is exhausted, dirty, unkept,
    It's days since she last slept,
    But this night, seen before only in dreams,
    She's communicated with powers that be.

    She grows flowers with a touch of her hand,
    To the dead plants on the land.
    She moves the clouds, draws patterns in skies,
    Makes them see, her eyes, her spies.

    She never meant to be seen as bad,
    But persecution and betrayal have had
    Their way in the quest for power she has run,
    Now her heart is as destructive as the fiery sun.

    And now we must away, just in case,
    That sun implodes and destroys every race.
    Her hair, not quite black,
    Once lay streaked and flat across her back.