Canto Six ~ Gundhag the witch returns home and immediately sets about the difficult task of determining the truth of the mystical child’s presumed possession. She is not entirely convinced the Arch Demon Childéan Kew resides within the boy.
The room at the apex of her twisted tower is alive with all manner of help mates. Even the shadows and breeze have life of their own. With their assistance (some eager, others not necessarily so) the center of the room is illuminated by eldritch lights. Removing the rags, she lays the baby upon her ancient table and considers what she already thinks she knows.
This does not take long.
If the Demon possessing the babe is indeed Childéan Kew, she has a vested (if unpredictable) interest in determining so. It was the Angel of Pain himself, guardian of the Gates of Hell and one of the Dark King’s chief minions, who was responsible for the destruction of Gundhag’s home some five hundred years ago. From the flaming devastation of The Lome the toddling witch was the only survivor.
Diving in both feet first, Gundhag does what she ever will. On gut instinct, she begins constructing the magicks she believes capable of waking the Demon inside.
Her success is immediate and explosive.
As expected, the Demon berates her unpleasantly, but it quickly becomes apparent this is all he may do. With a devious, long established trust in her luck, a little spit and cradle song, Gundhag begins to sing in an attempt to manipulate the spell she has set into motion. Although the witch has sought and studied the magic of the lands of Lurien for five centuries, the nursery rhyme in all its myriad forms is inexplicably innate to her and the core of her power.
Seeking to discern the actual identity of the spirit in the green flame, the tiny, shriveled witch shrieks insult and indifference to goad it into revealing itself and its present relationship with the child. If the Demon is the Arch Angel Kew, nothing this side of Hell should be restraining it.
Then, wholly unexpected in the chaos of the enchantment, the spirit confides to her the truth.
Gundhag had previously thought to trap whatever creature possessed the babe and put it to her own personal use. This would prove impossible if it was the Angel of Pain. However, improbable as it seems, the Demon is precisely who it claims to be and somehow already trapped.
Childéan Kew is held by the child itself and terrified of the implications.
Exulting in the danger, Gundhag one last time calls upon the power in the cradle song. She draws what may be its full might in order to return the baby to slumber and confine the Demon by her own Art.
She asks the aid of a great, green beast hiding in its loft above. The music it shares is unlike any known elsewhere in the world of this Age. A music that could perhaps “the world’s ills cure”. Its low, beautiful song draws harmony from the very rocks of the tower itself and empowers Gundhag’s final lullaby as though the witch’s own mother herself is singing.
Successful, exhausted and burned over much of her body (though seemingly without concern) she weeps at the memory of her mother’s voice and song so long ago lost.
It is a wonder to her unfathomable.
The Demon is trapped, the room has somehow survived and the child sleeps the deceptive sleep of the innocent.
However, as Gundhag ponders the baby’s slumber, three small tears of compassion fall from her old eyes to his face. Terrifyingly, they burn a swift scar into his cheek.

Canto Six

If one could count the steps all toll
that climb the heights unto one’s goal
thru hallways small so men must crawl
past ancient runes of cluttered scrawl
and o’er the cracked, grey, tattered stones 5
in which there lie white, bleached, old bones
to span the wide, black, missing piece
from whence come groans that will not cease
as beg they do to be set free
thence follow in one’s shadow’s lee, 10
one might with luck and heart that’s strong,
reach end of journey oh, so long.

Providing that one’s mind could keep
its focus bright held far from sleep
where wakeful visions haunt as dreams 15
unrav’ling frayed, though sentient seams
and darkness posed no strain to sight
(for nowhere here may one find light),
then goal is reached when guest arrives
at darkened door that’s stood for lives 20
uncounted of mere mortal men
to end count with twelve thousand ten.

Of course this is the utmost end
of journey’s crawl round twist and bend
since door, seemingly quite ajar, 25
should one push hard would not move far
that when an eye was pressed to see
within the room naught there would be
to pique the interest and to solve
such queries that wear at resolve 30
and force adventurers back down…

…though no one’s yet returned to town.

~ ~ ~

Up spry the broken steps she hops.
Nowhere along the case she stops.
No more than moments leaping stiff 35
in what Gundhag still calls “a jiff.”

She mumbles to herself as door
is passed without it widen more.
So dark inside she lights a wick.
The flame is small and so a stick 40
she strikes against wick’s waxen mound.
The light flares up. A tiny sound
comes from within of tiny fear
that “sorry” says. She does not hear.

Though dimly lit, still can be seen 45
strewn clutter. Some has never been
in open light. Not even she’s
seen all that lurks in cornered breeze
that whips at speed without a source.
That which is here stays here of course. 50

No windows, though a multitude
of peeps in unmatched layers crude
of ancient stones from near and far.
A few some say, come from a star.
So Legends tell. Old tales of Bards. 55
Soused rumors played at drunken cards.
In all, the walls are dark and yet
a sense of size and shape still let
her move about with confidence.
Though some things here can feel how tense 60
her short, stout legs pick through the trash.
A small round tin she dumps. The crash
sends marbled shapes across the floor.
One bounces cleanly thru the door.
A something there throws marble back. 65
It grunts a low, wet, gurgled hack.

Gundhag stops sharp. The breeze backs off.
She sighs. It turns into a cough.
A moment long for holding breath.
Her hunched back sinks low. “Smell like death,” 70
she softly rasps, “good to be home.”
Gnarled fingers beckon all to come.

As carcass shroud that’s billowed high
and settled down to help it die,
the room entire as one beast 75
(whose breathing now had all but ceased)
gasps forth in a collective sigh.
“Glowworm. I sees. Bring you light nigh.”

From darkened corners in the round
three lights glare small without a sound. 80
They wildly spin increasing burn
to settle in transparent urn.
Illumination chases gloom
from central portions of the room.

Those shadows sleeping light in dark 85
slip back a bit, so leaving stark
the deeper shadows on the edge.
Gundhag steps neat upon a ledge
that middle rounds, a foot in height.
Things hurry scurry there in fright. 90

On top’s a table. Bit more tall.
Parts cut away so she may crawl
and reach with ease each rotting crack,
although some spots will stretch her back.

Upon the stick broke yestermorn 95
she spits and so a candle’s born.
As flames grow large she mounts an end
in crack of wall. It’s quick to send
more light to shades that hug the walls.
To little lights in round, glass balls 100
she whispers, “Brighter.” Fingers curled
she calls to others. They come whirled
in maelstrom of swift spinning flash.
Again and now, some with a crash,
shades trip and fall to hidden ports, 105
a bit put out and out of sorts.

Then dropped within each clear glass jar,
lights cruelly glare and send afar
illumination they have cached.
‘Tis genocide as myrce is slashed. 110

“Alls here, come gather round about!
Be’s quiek now. None you here shout.
It wrap all up in rag. Is cold.
But! Sleeping still. Hush now~ Behold!”

Upon the table, gently laid, 115
the baby stirs. A pillow’s made
by fuzzy thing rolled from the dark
beneath his head. First sign of mark,
unearthly sanguine black and bright,
elicits soft a gasp of fright. 120

Her tentative, queer band draws near,
then jumps aback. A clear green tear
fell with a thud and formed a mound.
As slow as sludge with nary sound,
Gundhag looks up thru beaded eye 125
to coldly glare at what dared cry.

She clamps her teeth to keep words soft.
“Takes care, you hulk. Backs to you loft.”
The massive beast that weeps in green
sulks sadly neither heard nor seen. 130

She tries to tall upon tiptoe.
Her wide, bright smile bathes all in glow.
She hangs her head to peer as crush
of little band returns in hush.

They huddle round the orphan’s face. 135
Gundhag’s strange realm this is~ where chase
and follow, hide and flight; where risk
and dangers past her means will whisk
her off to lands unknown and drags
the unsuspecting soul that lags. 140

“Consensus now. Is precious tot?
Be wrong. Not know what hell we got.
This may be more than hag can hold.
When it go south don’t no one fold.
Here any think they scared of child, 145
compared to nasty witch he mild.
You all gots place to be on guard.
Each one do job. Not care if hard.”

And now her eyes are wide and bright.

Some time it takes to free the tight 150
o’erwrapping rags that snug conform
and shielded safe its charge thru storm.

At last she’s pulled entire wet
and tattered towel whom Cridge had set
the infant on. Worn thin and split 155
the rag is gone. Of blood and grit
it’s lain aside where she can stare
and ponder what the boy may wear.

A mother’s nature is not hers.
She’s never been, hers is but blurs. 160

A few things come with aid in mind
and drag a fur of beast whose kind...
it’s best perhaps to keep concern
away… for now. It’s left, they turn
and leave post haste on chance their choice 165
the witch think poor and not rejoice.

When soon some comfort’s been afford
and child sleeps calm, Gundhag grows bored.

She spits upon the underside
of one black, curly nail. The hide 170
she traces round tattoo of tears.
‘Twas bright before. Still more it clears.

One top the other on the right.
On left between the two whose light
now glows the brighter as she draws. 175
She puckers lips and looming claws
at marks until he gurgles spit.
She does not need a childish fit.

Her thoughts range wide on how to keep
the tot complacent… and asleep. 180
She’ll ponder that behind her head.
There’s need to think of Kew instead.

A time so long ago forgot,
Gundhag can scarce with thoughts allot
the space required. Memory 185
takes so much room she ne’er could see
its need for her beyond the mists
of incantation’s needful lists.

Yet buried deep in clutter thick,
with awful things that made her sick, 190
there are some dreams that once upon
a time were nice… she makes them gone.

Right now Gundhag needs awful things.
She pokes around for stuff that stings
and finds the fearful downward climb 195
surprisingly takes little time.

Burned black and permanent indeed.
In her cold heart she feels the speed
with which His wings tore thru her home~
the greening flames that torched The Lome. 200

O, how she ran, her soul aghast,
but part in hungry wonder fast~
The need to know, her soul as thrilled.
Why had the Demon never killed?

Gundhag learned why with cradlesong. 205
Nowhere is left where she’ll belong.

These marks upon the hide if true
belong not to Childéan Kew.

The young girl’s corpse to her could lie.
Unlikely though, why would she try? 210
And still, no common birthmark this.
Now slow and constant boils her hiss.

She also spoke the Demon’s name.
In arrogance to spread His fame
he thus declared, hence ‘tis not odd. 215
Yet, spoke those words as if the sod
of Hell’s black ground and rock she knew.
The common whore knows naught of Kew.

Mistake perhaps she thinks she’s made
to leave her there in muddy glade. 220
This rain will carry on for days.
No one will find her in such haze.
She’ll send the boy back to collect.
With blisters he’ll be circumspect.

In its own time that task anon. 225
This puzzle now to work upon.

The danger here is no small thing.
She looks about the tiny ring
of light that circles her and child.
He’s warmer now and sleeping mild. 230

He needs be fed, but not until
she has some answers, then his fill
to offer when no chance is took
by doing so. She dare not brook
mistake again if it be true 235
she now is chased as game battue
by one she knows~ a Lord of Hell.

By one who’s heard Himself The Bell
that reverent rings above The Gates
where Hell’s Black King dwells nigh and hates 240
in all His vain and gloried might.
So dread yet wondrous to the sight
of she, etern’lly damned, who hides
(or hides who’re not i’faith Fides)
in slums of City’s dark abyss. 245

The City that the damned named Dis.

To this then does she turn her thought.
If Kew abides what has he wrought?
What doth an Arch Angel of Hell
do here in such a shallow well? 250

The spirit of the child will hold
the Demon weak until it’s old.
The age of childhood’s innocence
is strong. To her it makes no sense
for such as Kew to bide His time 255
in child allowed no sin and crime.

Such purpose that He sees afar
must needs be grand if He would bar,
nor actively participate,
the need He has of pain to sate. 260

In all events if He is here,
then to its soul He’s caused to sear
the essence of His might and wrath.
‘Tis odd and curious this path.

Yet all this ponder is in vain 265
if here is not an Angel’s pain.

From moment first her smokes she made
a black thing stirred that would not fade.
The spell she cast on lifeless flesh
that brought to light what dark had mesh 270
with poor lost soul, had drowned her deep
in black, persistent, mystic seep.

Hag would it help identify
the nature of the beast that lie
within. Though what she felt was clear, 275
naught here in child or dam was queer
that Arts of hers could so reveal.
Perhaps another? There to steal
a place of might already held?
A conflict then. One yet to meld. 280

The mother’s soul was weary, old,
yet not with years or creases fold.
The child itself was not perverse,
but one could not deny the curse
that lingered in or near her son~ 285
a tang of evil just begun.

She bites her lip to make it bleed.
Again anticipating need,
a cat sized rat with matted fur
rolls wooden saucers out to her. 290

Pick one or more it seems to say.
Choose now, I must be on my way.

The witch and rat lock eyes to stare.
Both wide and crystal bright in dare.
A pyramid arcs sharp and fast 295
o’er hag’s left eye~ the rat won’t last.

It bolts but instant fore she slaps
the smallest of the three and snaps
the flaming stick to light its tail
from where she struck to swift assail. 300

The little bowl flips thru the air.
In fear, a flask with no great care,
one slides the length of table top.
She stops it with her flaming crop,
breaks lid and in one motion drinks. 305
Before the saucer lands she sinks
a spittle in the center hard.
The excess drops smoke black like lard.

It nails the bowl in front of her.
She prods with stick as if to stir. 310

The whole damn thing erupts in flame
and nothing close about stays tame.
She spits more blood, squints eye to task
and starts the bowl to spin. The mask
grins mad and wild she calls her face. 315
Now, fluffing rags as if fine lace,

she~ “Stalling!” squeals… O, much too loud.
Quick stumbling readjusts the crowd.

“He know I here! I know He there!
Does hag no good just stand and stare!” 320

Again she bites her lip and flows
pour thick and fast. Then~ Gundhag crows!
A ratt’ling, bursting, shaken hark
that chases light so leaving stark
the center round them all in blight~ 325
a moment quick in no one’s sight.

The saucer swirls around and round.
She grips the flaming stick to pound
upon the table with her fist.
Six, seven times then one past hist 330
she spits at child to wake him up.
Again she stokes the wooden cup.

Now, primal roars tear thru the room.
Green, smokeless flames destroy the gloom.
With back of hand hag wipes her lip 335
and sneers as shadows back and trip
to hide again against the wall
from where, with nerve, they tried to crawl
up closer so to see more clear
what moments past they did not fear. 340

The mystic burn spins upward bright,
a single torch and twice her height.
To conflagrant without a twitch,
her eyes afire, Gundhag the Witch
screams mad to all. Her scorching breath 345
ignites the fur. “It smell like death!”

She starts to laugh and cannot stop.
To reach the rags she climbs atop
the table and then throws them high.
They disappear. “Where are you? Fie! 350
Hag feeds you fire, Demon Lord!
Come show you self or are you bored?”

In dazzling glare she’s near to blind.
She claws with hands. She seeks, she’ll find.
A grip gnarled round by corded might 355
hold down the child who twists to fight
and squeals a howl that rattles stone.
He finds her hand and bites to bone.

She’s lost her mind and laughing loud.
“Mad Gods!” She shrieks. “Brat make hag proud!” 360

Since boy clamps down and won’t let go,
Gundhag lifts by his teeth to show
the bright red, dangling infant that~
“Be full of shit and baby fat!
Be nothing here but stinking poo. 365
You ain’t no damn Childéan Kew!”

On farthest wall another crash
as shadows there push, shove and smash
against each other seeking who
(in case that said might not be true) 370
may put the greatest distance ‘tween
the squealing thing and them not seen.

“You no run now! Is nothing here!
Got’s no excuse to flee from fear!
If running scared you needs to be 375
it best you runs away from me!”

Her face contorts a bloody smile.
She’s laughing, snorting all the while.

Then in the clearing flame there comes
a richer, louder voice that hums 380
from resonant, deep, rumbling growl
to swiftly grow into a howl
of anger; indignation fierce.
It cleanly cuts the din to pierce
the mad cacophony of sound 385
‘til tumults wildly shake the ground.

“You sad, fool bitch! Forfeit your life!
You base and clumsy, rotting wife
of mindless tasks you can’t control.
‘Tis last you’ll recognize your soul!”2 390

She shrieks in glee to wake the dead,
a sick, mad need to face His dread.
“How now you talk?! You be awake?!
This baby new! No wake to take!”

What’s seen and hidden round those two 395
now runs away. Away from Kew.
Away from her. Away from child.
Slink fast. Away. Leave them beguiled.

The lights, spite glare, she still sees fade.
She barks, “I not away you bade! 400
Come back here with you coward’s light!
You keeps this baby good and bright!”

All gloaming still, but growing weak,
her lamps stall out as grue flames speak.
They rant at short and stubby thing 405
that thinks it can restrain His sting.

“If immortality desire,
you need but press again my ire!
I’ll see you live forever, scag!
I’ve known your name for long, Gundhag!” 410

A rapture unlike others feel
wets greasy hide and she must kneel
to keep herself from falling down.
“You lie!”She screams. “Not Kew on crown!
If you be evil Demon stuff 415
I be mess now! Hag had enough!”

She frees her hand and hears it crack.
Sees broken bone and shoves it back.
Her hair’s ablaze. Her eyes as well.
What sense she had has gone to Hell. 420

The long, thick, leathern strand of tongue
behind the gold and wood is hung
to drop a drool upon the tears.
She squints an eye as cracked thumb smears
the oily spit so as to smudge 425
tattoos away. Tattoos don’t budge.

In glee as child she sings to him.
A baby taunt somehow more grim.
“Not you! Not you! You no my Kew!
Kew no awake in baby new! 430
You full of dung! You talk too grand!
If you be Kew then where you stand?
Not here in babe! If there you sleep!
If not be there, where hell you keep?!”

Since first the deflagrate appeared 435
its roar drops off. Though hair is seared
all round her head, her breathing slows,
her eyes draw tight. She thinks she knows.

“There is another in you way.
You not get in. Not let you stay.” 440
A tiny giggle rolls around
inside her throat~ a dreadful sound.
Come after all the crushing noise,
the little laugh, infantile poise,
to those who know portends high tide. 445
All slink again. ‘Tis time to hide.

The witch’s mind now thinks so fast
she knows she cannot make it last.

It seems her band’s guessed who is here.
What He may do is reasoned fear. 450

Where Demon is could likely be
the very thing for victory.

She can’t know why in child enrapt
such Demon is nor how he’s trapped
a Lord of Hell, but she’s no doubt~ 455

‘tis not the time to work it out.

Spite insolent hulla balloo,
while held ‘tis all the schlep can do.

She looks again at all her things…
and lets them run. Then… Gundhag sings. 460

“Tol teriand fondil, tei se.”
Melodically she starts to sway.
She grabs a fur and hopes it’s dead,
pats down the flames and wraps his head.

“Tol teriand fondil, tei se. 465
Fuun~tier quest, too noo dis fuun~may;”
Of all the lists in lexicon
of mystic might relied upon
in dire need she’s ne’er known why,
the strongest is her lullaby. 470

The flame now roars to life once more,
yet tentative within its core.
Its voice is dull. She leaks a hiss.
Malevolence has her in bliss.

“A toilet drain and leprous rag. 475
You play with flame you cracked, old scag.
You’ve ceased to use your mind at all.
No sense you have of what you call.
If get you gone I’ll leave some stone.
Touch child again and I burn bone 480
as swift as cloth. Your blood’s but dew.

For am I not Childéan Kew?!”

Pretending to ignore His rage
Gundhag again sings soft and sage.

“Tol teriand fondil, tei se. 485
Fuun~tier quest, too noo dis fuun~may;
bal rey. Bal rey is dis. Fuun~cry.
Mes mahárdey tulmáhis ty.”

A tiny spot in one bright eye
looks, listens to the Demon’s cry. 490

“The filth that floats on Hell’s rank sea
has wisdom greater far than thee!”

Gundhag still hides concern as false.
She fawns on babe and hums her waltz.
Enchantment cuddles child in steams 495
that drift like candle smoke in dreams.
The outer edge of greening torch
responds in kind and lessens scorch.

But as she coos so soft and sweet
there comes a thing that’s ne’er been meet 500
by her or ilk in Demon trap.
‘Tis truth and strikes her as a slap.

“If Thing inside this child can wake,
I know not yet. I cannot take
the place it lies within the boy 505
nor loose my grip and lunge with joy
to rip your ugly throat from you.
Come that fair chance, you’ll know me Kew.”

A nervous laugh unbid comes loose.
Her throat constricts from such abuse. 510
The heat about the table top
has caused the ancient sap to pop.
A steaming smoke floats off the wood
and from her mouth she’d stop if could.
Again the baby’s furs catch flame. 515
They burst in spurts that she keeps tame.
The infant’s hide shows blisters pink.
If she would take the time to think
amidst her gambit this might cause
concern to mind and force a pause. 520

But fury in Gundhag still acts
most often without all her facts~
successfully… she plows straight on
with nerve and grit to act upon
that which she felt in gut the first. 525
She drains the flask to spite her thirst
and spits it on the child’s small face.
New flames erupt. Increasing pace
of Lullaby she sings again
and draws upon the orphan’s pain. 530

“Kõt teriand fondil, fuun~se.
Fuun~tier quest, too noo too fuun~may!
Bal rey. Bal rey is dis. Fuun~cry?
Mes mahárdey tulmáhis ty!”

The flame whips round in rage, but grows 535
no more. ‘Tis pale and weakness shows.

“You senseless bitch. In this you fail.
You’ll drown in your high, blood filled pail!
Look to this ‘Thing’ that now I hold
in talons longing pain and cold. 540
If you would know that sleeping mind
of child can hold this ‘Thing’, whose kind
I do not think you wish to know,
then tell me such! I will let go!”

Though all her band still hides in fear 545
a smile’s o’erstretched Gundhag’s mad sneer.
The truth of it lands like a rock
thrown from the Gods to clean her clock.
Confused that she had missed it so
she revels now. At last to know. 550

That which keeps Kew away from babe
is babe itself. Its soul’s not made
from Demon’s grip. He’s something more.
Within the flesh it does not store
its might to use as infant grows~ 555
it is the child itself. She knows!

This thing she rocks to sleep with song
Childéan Kew’s feared all along.
Its face aflame, its hide is burned
and still it lives. What has she learned? 560

White Gods of Hell, what’s come to her?
And is it chance or was she lure?

An Arch Angel of Hell is scared
down to His primal core. Bewared!
Bewared of what she’s put to sleep! 565

She dares to think her Arts will keep
that which has frightened such as Kew.

Well… nothing left for her to do.

A giggle like a snarl comes rough
from out her lips. A kiss as tough 570
as dead hide on his forehead leaves.
She whispers hoarse thru jerking heaves,

“You there, foul thing? Who be you now?
Is this you tears upon the brow?
Or mommas love to mark you well. 575
If you scare Kew, you come from Hell.”

And as before she kneels in awe.
In wonder at phenomena.
A necessary thrill to seek
so willingly of life’s mystique. 580

‘Tis purpose driven, known by none.
Her venture ever new begun.
She fears no death or life beyond,
though strange the tastes of that queer pond.

Beneath her breath she whispers soft. 585
“You hear me Cruel, high in you loft?
Sing with the hag the way you like.
Here’s chance to take. Be risk to spike.”

So tranquil now it warms her face.
Fair melodies she sings that trace 590
the memories of ages past.
A sweep of life, unique and vast.
Of long ago and Momma’s voice.
For certes this song’s not her choice.

The rocks of ancients round them swell 595
as something rings as ancient bell.
A resonance low, clean and pure
with peace that could the world’s ills cure.

She draws upon her mother now
and dwells not on the why or how 600
the magic in her lullaby
may trap a Demon in child’s sigh.

“Tol teriand fondil, tei se.
Fuun~tier quest, too noo dis fuun may;
bal rey. Bal rey is dis. Fuun~cry. 605
Mes mahárdey tulmáhis ty.

Tol teriand fondil, qui tan.
Eel mandrial too kulmi kran.
Ooo, Foo peelyah, tin risk is cry.
Mes mahárdey tulmáhis ty.” 610

In saddened eyes, small, cold tears pool.
She needs no Demon crying fool
to tell her what sort box she’s capped.
Pandora’s here though Demon’s trapped.

‘Twas Him she feared, but now she knows~ 615
Childéan Kew’s the least of woes.

As baby slips once more to dreams
the mystic flame abandons means
by which it lived… it simply fades.
Its savage gloat sporadic trades 620
with those of hag’s that cautious grow
around the room. All strive to show
they’ve not been frightened off by such.
Gundhag knows this was far too much
to ask of them. Perhaps she’s proud, 625
but she’ll not say so here out loud.

In last of flickers was a word
the Demon spoke to be last heard.
Her victory took also that.
He will remind her next they spat. 630

Somewhat convinced the child sleeps sound,
but not so sure of what she’s bound.
“We never does take easy road.”
She laughs and coughs. “Hag sound like toad.”
No sound of all those near is heard. 635
Still, sense there is of somethings stirred.

Her twisted, ancient fingers singed,
she strokes from infant’s face the cringed
and innocent mumble of dreams.
“Whate’er you are,” she says, “it seems, 640
you not so bad. Just baby. Sleep.”

At last the hag’s old eyes can’t keep
the tears that well within. So fall
then three upon child’s face. Join all
in one on infant’s cheek. They burn 645
and scar the orphan’s flesh. “It spurn.
A token of compassion harms.”
Her instinct flares with fierce alarms.

Again her memory is cold
with awful things that dark blindfold 650
to good that comes from “times to times”.
She fears these harsh, black, magic rhymes,
yet seeks them also. She knows why.
If there are others, none decry.