Rise of the Witches: a poem
When a man does it they call him a prophet, but when a woman does it they call her a witch They fear her sight, her truth, her quiet profit, for sacred power in her hands breaks every script. They forgot, we all came from women—our mothers and one day will return to a woman—Mother Earth The cycle binds our sisters and our brothers, From blood to bone, from ending back to birth. The doorway to heaven is held in her form, Yet they wound her power, distort the norm, They told her she’s weak, unworthy and lazy, Confined her to walls, called her fire “crazy.” They burned her books, her body, and her name, Midwives, herbalists, blamed for plague and pain, They called her curse, they called her shame, While stealing her wisdom, then claiming the gain. She was the healer long before the white coat, With roots, with touch, with prayers softly spoke, Not against the science the future wrote, But the bridge where spirit and medicine woke. She knew the language of root and leaf, of water, breath, ...