this the witch’s rite and sign

witch's rite and sign

gather the power from the air
to know, be silent, to will, to dare
build the silence strong and sound
through sea and sky and sovereign ground
mark the passage through the worlds
there Her Secret Rose unfurls
spill tears and wine upon the earth
honour the gate of death and birth
fill your heart will longing's song
sing the Names to which we belong
kiss the flame between the horns
praise the tempest and the storm
then all will soften, all still and quiet
lay down with lovers in the night
and three times times three and nine times nine
this the witch's rite and sign.

x Fio Gede Parma x

A witch’s magic is all silence and sound.

A witch’s rites are strange, forgotten, and remembered in twilight places.

A witch’s sign lies in the heart of apples, gleams in the spilt seeds of pomegranates, shimmers in the wind as the moon rises over the sea.

Dressed in magic, a witch moves through the world hungry and nourished simultaneously.

Ravenous and yearning, a witch commands only from the deep well of self… and to know self is a dangerous and crooked path.

We speak with serpents and owls, know the secret names of goats and peacocks, and drum the old powers up to dance with us, knowing that we too are called to the Sabbat by their drums, their songs.

Praising the endless spiralling life-force of wonder and holy dread, we - hooded in the potent blackness of night - gather together, anoint one another in holy oil, and we transform.

Monstrous we seem, poisonously beautiful, dazzling discomfort that twists the guts and shreds the expected… we open gates of power and initiation that the worlds may make love in the heart of mystery…

Mystery, the witch’s name for Being, for Fate becoming, for the Wyrd unfolding, for the dissolving and the renewing.