“I myself have seen this woman draw the stars from the sky; she diverts the course of a fast-flowing river with her incantations; her voice makes the earth gape, it lures the spirits from the tombs, sends the bones tumbling from the dying pyre.  At her behest, the sad clouds scatter; at her behest, snow falls from a summer’s sky.”  Tibullus

The fire is lit, and all around it spirits speak in lingering whispers that carry like the wind. The moonlight casts their faces in shadow, little glimmers of light upon the alabaster, snow white skin and jagged, concave angles of the jaw. Their bare feet dance upon the shattered remnants of the trees, the mossy growths that blanket the earth, decaying leaves in hues of reds and browns and golds. Mustard yellows like the seeds from which their faiths are planted, growing forth in rooted patterns of electric current from the boiling brew of elements that whir about within the spiraled core of planet earth. Through the soles of the feet, traveling with flaming fury, igniting the veins that trickle with a life force unbeknownst to those who linger within the walls of structured isolation.

They crouch before the fire, leaping forth with wild abandon like the chaotic movements of the flickering flames. Their fingers reach up to the heavens, nails tearing through the galaxies, remnants of the Milky Way clinging to their skin. Hands bathed in the gossamer glimmer of the stars, like the wings of fairies trailing through the skies. Naked and unclothed their bodies graced by splattered mud in Jackson Pollock canvases of divine alignment, connect the dots in patterned pictures of the soul.

Half goddess, half hell, they command the movements of the universe, orchestrating time and space like great composers written of within the pages of ancient manuscripts. Shrouded both in darkness and in light, the rains fall when they weep, the earth shakes when they mourn, and all that ever was and comes to pass exists within the shadows of their glory.

And so we dance. Upon the ashy soils of dust to dust our feet are guided by the movements of those free spirits; our bodies are possessed by something wild and untamed. It threatens to break loose from the confines of our souls, exploding forth in a brilliant sublimity that makes all mortals bow their heads and cast aside their eyes.

We dance in memory of those who came before. Because we are the daughters of the witches that you couldn’t burn.