Peachy clouds shred
veils of shine-time,
their lacy strands
violet night’s velvet,
tucking the light in slumber.
When they thought us wicked, we were really wise
In the Burning Times of world despise,
They named us as tricksters, blamed things dark and worse,
Called cunning and wile a demon’s curse.
Heaven and the Underworld, summoned at will,
Crept on cat-paws to nurture or thrill,
Reading vain futures – balancing humors –
Attending births and healing tumors.
Folklore has always survived the Dark Ages . . .
They’ll never destroy the timeless Sages.