The Old Ones Speak by Barbara Carvallo

 

Magnificent Photo by Jackie B. Steele

 

When I see the Blessed Moon gowned in silvery light

Drifting through the ebony sky cloudy with star dust
I see the hills of Ireland drenched in the fog of time
I see my grandmothers worshiping that ancient land,
Healing, comforting, advising their ancient people;
Even as they midwife and support those who must crossover
They honor the Goddess Cerridwen,
They tend Her cauldron of life and death.

 I see the men in long black gowns coming for them

Swelling out of the shadows on a wave of self righteousness
In service to an angry god they come with Bible and fire
To torture, burn and drowned Cerridwen’s daughters,
These men say that to accept their angry god is salvation;
But not from the cruelty, lies and murder hidden in their vestments
They rob for profit those they kill as they preach forgiveness,
For when was such a Church ever built without commerce.

Through shadowy trees my ancestors whisper in the Sacred Night

To a daughter who need not fear the Bible or the torch
Be careful as you go in a world of angry gods say they
In words deepened by centuries of generational harmony,
Honor the Goddess and know the Craft;
To be free you must think free and never doubt the path
Some will trivialize your knowledge and demonize your faith,
It is their own darkness they fear and only they can light their way.