The Old Woman
By Palash Tali, the old woman dwells,
With vines and leaves, her secret compels.
No knots to tie, no threads to weave,
Yet few dare tread where shadows cleave.
She knows no spells, nor chants to weave,
Yet whispers of plotting the villagers believe.
In her hands, she stirs jars of bright spice,
Among forest creatures, her home feels precise.
In the breeze, I hear, she weaves her design,
In the dance of illusion, her magic aligns.
But when dusk descends and the stillness creeps,
Who enters her threshold where silence keeps?
Some come bent with pain, their backs all askew,
Wrapped in fever's grip, their bodies anew.
Or perhaps it’s a belly that churns with despair,
Sickened and weary, they gasp for fresh air.
In the shadows they gather, where secrets abide,
With jars of her pickles, they walk side by side.
Through day into night, in health they unite,
Reciting soft mantras, chasing away fright.
A chosen one walks the path, unaware,
To the old woman's door, where dangers ensnare.
For in her embrace, life’s tether may wane,
And hung from a tree, like the whispers of pain.