The Pyre

The witch walks up to her funeral pyre
White gown, swaying, the chaplain, praying
The executioner lighting the fire.
Her crime is something quite obscure
Perhaps poisoning the neighbors' cat
The judge wipes sweat from his brow, his wife adjusts her hat.
A crowd has gathered in the square to see the sorceress die
She stands erect and proud, upright, the fire dancing in her eyes.
 tall and strong, ready to go to heaven.
She is bound to the wooden stake, and, though his hands are shaking,
The executioner ties the ropes tightly and the fire keeps on blazing.
She looks skyward and she screams and then she is no more
A cool breeze carries her ashes off into the forevermore.
The town was not changed that day, the houses stood amongst the trees
But you’d be surprised to hear-the year was nineteen-fifty-three.