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The Persecuted Crone
06:35
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“These doomed village streets
I forever walk alone.”
She was dressed in rags of burlap
The figure of our scorn
Skin cracked round her withered stare
On a face all covered in sores
“On your haughty perches
An ill wind blows”
Was it one in his frustration?
Or all who cast the stones?
In the end drunk on our disgust
We stared down at the bloodied crone.
“For those who laugh at you
Will be the first to come and watch you die”
Death came to us all that winter,
To the lucky ones at least.
Fathers fell to the fever
Sisters stricken by the sadness
It grew inside us all
One by one they met their fate
And I stood in my home
I knew the hour was growing late.
But the years go by
And I’m still waiting
For the shrouded figure
To open the gates
Dressed in rags I walk alone
A figure of mockery and constant hate
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