She is the first, but others will follow,
The ghosts of the witches of old,
Returning to haunt those who hunted them for centuries,

She is the harbinger of our dismal future,
The first coming to walk on water at dusk,
Gathering herbs for her magic potions,
Recalling ancient spells, chanting half-forgotten charms,

To summon her sisters from the darkening sky,
Watching them swoop down from the otherworld on brooms,
Like crows or bats, who beat their wings against the thickening night,

Descending upon the world like the falling darkness,
To wreak havoc upon the children of men who treated them atrociously,
So their souls can finally rest in peace,
Satiated with their cold revenge.