Whispered Secrets of a Witching Age (Poem)

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Whispered Secrets of a Witching Age

In twilight’s hush where old winds stray,
And night leans close to steal the day,
The air grows thick with ancient lore—
Soft murmurs from a time before.

The witching age, in shadow spun,
Was born of moon and midnight sun;
Its secrets drift on silver thread,
From whispering woods to the newly dead.

Each whispered truth a guarded spell,
A pact where light and darkness dwell;
A name half-shaped, a vow half-kept,
A promise sworn while others slept.

They tell of covens veiled in mist,
Of fate undone by lover’s tryst;
Of charms that bend the mortal path,
And curses forged in quiet wrath.

Yet not all secrets lead to fear—
Some gently guide the ones who hear;
A healing rite, a hidden sign,
A warning carved in fern and vine.

And though the age has long grown old,
Its breath still stirs when nights turn cold;
For magic lives where whispers wage
The subtle war of time and age.

So listen well, with steady heart,
To murmured tales the dark imparts;
For only those who truly gauge
Can read the secrets
Of a witching age.