The Last Fire of Walpurgis Night

The hill burns bright with laughter and fear—

April’s last breath, trembling in smoke.

They say the witches fly tonight,

their hair tangled with sparks,

their voices sewn from wind and whisper.

The old ones gather by the pyre,

bread and honey laid upon the stone—

a sweet bribe for spirits

that linger between frost and bloom.

We dance, though the night is sharp,

and the earth still tastes of sleep.

Ash falls like pollen.

Someone sings an ancient song

that no one admits to knowing.

Flames bend toward morning,

orange tongues licking the bones of winter.

The children run in circles,

their shadows long as years,

their laughter a kind of spell.

The masks we wear—

wolf, crow, witch, fool—

all melt away in the smoke,

until only faces remain,

lit by what we’ve dared to lose.

When the fire sinks into its hollow,

we wait for silence to take us.

The stars seem closer now,

as if drawn by the heat.

Someone tosses the last wreath in—

wild thyme, ivy, a lock of hair—

and the flame answers softly,

folding the offering into itself,

turning everything—

fear, song, sin, hope—

to one quiet glow.

By dawn, the hill is ash and dew.

No witches, no laughter,

just the faint scent of honey

and the feeling that something has ended—

or begun again,

in the hush after the fire.