A Parting Curse

 

The Lucerne folks had duly made
A worthy build of lumber stacked
At center place of public square,
And be in Pilates‘ presence there.

A woman not of tender years,
But comely handsome in her prime.
Her flowing hair, the crucifix,
Would soon be smold'ring candle wicks.

And as the morning sun arose,
The prisoner escorted thus,
Was jeered at by the jostled crowd
That started chanting, each aloud:

"Burn the witch! Burn the witch!" they said,
"Stoke flames until she's proper dead!"

The woman robed in black did bow
Before her arms and torso tied
To limbless tree trunk, tall & straight
That held her to a burning fate.

The village broke out in a dance
As several men with torches lit
Approached the pyre and bowed their heads,
The dancers stopped, a prayer was said.

'Twas in the silence as they prayed,
The woman they'd judged as a witch
Looked up and o'er the folk en mass,
Threw back to shake her head and laughed.

And just as torches lit the pyre,
The witch went up in clouds of sparks
That caused the folk to hit the ground,
Their screams were heard for miles around.      
        
         
         
       
The epicenter of the witch hunts was Europe’s German-speaking heartland, an area that makes up Germany, Switzerland, and northeastern France.        
         
As competition for religious market share heated up, churches expanded beyond the standard spiritual services and began focusing on salvation from devilry here on earth. Among both Catholics and Protestants, witch-hunting became a prime service for attracting and appeasing the masses by demonstrating their Satan-fighting prowess.        
         
From 1400-1782, between 40,000 and 60,000 people were put to death for witchcraft.      
     
Pilates = Lucern’s local mountain in Switzerland.