Her corpse lay under the sheath-like shadow of the gallows tree,
With a visage still coruscating like a rogue candle in the fading crepuscule.
The sylvan nightshade that enwreathed her deathbed,
Now ploddingly withered after delivering a swaying swan song.
Her incantated blood had defiled the pitchforks,
That were now celebrated at revelrous banquets of the Northmen.
The black arts that tormented the trepidatious townsfolk,
Now ceased to sojourn in the craggy heartlands.
Her fallen sisters huddled and stared from afar,
Written by Shritan Verma
Edited by Sanyam Garg