The river is still, a mirror reflecting the sky.
Not a ripple, not a quiver, not a wave.
The air has a taint of burning, but you would need to be told,
That it was the flesh of the women, cried witches.

A grudge, a disagreement, a fear of the unknown. 
A pointed finger and a whisper behind hands. 
Herbs and remedies and healing.
No sentence or judge, only the verdict of guilty.

An audience, who jeer as the pyre is built higher. 
The accused on the stand, they light the fire.
The ashes, the bones, and teeth. 
All swept together.

Gather the cinders, leave nothing behind. 
Don’t stop. Don’t breathe. Don’t think. 
They’ll come back alive as soon as you blink.
But everyone knows, they can not cross the water.

So pour the remains into the river.
With grey swirls on the surface and clouds of smoke in the air.
Disrupting the calm, but calm they will be.
As the women are sent out to the sea.