In villages where bread was thin
And grief still clung to door and bone
They named the lonely, named the poor
They named the ones who spoke alone
A woman’s knowledge of the root
A midwife’s hand, a healer’s prayer
Became the mark of suspicion
With devils conjured from the air
The Witchfinders wore God like armor
Text twisted and bent into a blade
They swore the rope and fire were clear
That justice loved the noise it made
They weighed the soul by water’s will
Called drowning proof of innocence too late
And if she lived, the breath she kept
Was guilt enough to seal her fate
The faithful cruelty of crowds, of cowards
So quick to kneel, so quick to stone
How fear found sermons in the dark
A flock too thoughtless to atone
The trials were not of witches then
But of a world afraid to see
Its hunger, plague, and shattered faith
Reflected back as enemy
Ash fell like snow on nameless graves,
While witchfinders walked praised and fed
Their legacy not in the flames
But in the lies that hung the dead
Remember this
With lists, with names, with nail & tooth
The truest evil wears a mask
And calls its persecution “truth”
