Is not a crime
Nor to take notice
Of changing times.
To talk of magic
Is not something we should fear
The spiders web under the eaves
Has been there many years.
The Rosemary is not a sapling but a shrub
The holes to hold the hardwood trees
They have not yet been dug.
And much more listening do we require
Before we hear
Screams of magic women left burning in the pyre
Where the Sage has sprouted
We must share its leaves
Or be lost in our undoing
In a land of make believe.
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