The burned have come

And to burn they came.

On leaves of oak they walk,

With bare feet stained with soot.

The mother calls and they come forth,

From shallow graves in unmarked ground,

To a gentle coven in the woods.

The burned are here,

they stand as one.

There are no tears on any face,

for they have no tears to give.

None for the world which made them burned,

And none for themselves for they need them not.

They are here to burn and not to weep.

Their skin is black and burned,

As are their hearts that beat no more.

The world shall feel their vengeful wrath,

And burn to ash like their ruined flesh.

And know it is the hour of the witch.

The burned have come,

and so has their hour.

They bided their time and waited till

Their ancient mother brought them up

From cold earth to blazing fury.

A child with a face of soot

Holds hand with a crone of ash.

A maiden with blistered skin

Dances naked with their mother

Who in rapture sees them them come.

From centuries of hate they come.

Generations of anger here are gathered.

In their safe coven in an ancient wood,

They plan and play and sing and dance

For tomorrow they shall die again.

The hour of the witch has come

Their vengeance will come as fire

That cleanses this hate filled world

Of the darkness that made them burned,

And from the fires we shall see the light.

Like phoenixes they rose to come

And gather here to bring their hour

And like them the world shall burn

And like their flesh be turned to ash,

And then like a phoenix the world too shall rise.

And then a better time will come,

When the hour of the witch has gone

And all hate and fear have been purged

By the vengeance of the burned,

Who, at peace, shall again return to earth.