Baba Yaga
Once a youthful spirit who ran untamed and
laughed with delight,
She met a mysterious woman who taught her the
craft by moonlight.
They danced naked and leapt high above the
hungry flames,
Rode wild horses through the forest bareback
and unrestrained.
Now the balance has been twisted and
contorted for the worse,
The land lies beneath a darkened cloud, a
wretched curse.
In the pit of fire, she lies awake, tossing
and turning,
In a restless state, mind inflamed and her
body burning.
Her entire world out of balance, her sacred
craft out of sync,
Her spells all drifting offbeat, her cauldron
of fire on the blink.
The sacred forest lies under siege from the
madness of Orcs,
Its ancient legacy cleft, all creation
rendered a corpse.
Yet still she persists to create the mother
of all spells,
Yearning to brew the potion that will rock
the evil citadels.
To end the slaughter and erase the plague of
ravenous beasts,
Their lust for land and genocide descending
from the northeast.
As Baba Yaga stares with empty eyes at her
withering fire,
Vexed and gripped by the confusing spell of
restless desire.
Within the flames that lick the air, she
searches for a vision,
To end all pain and suffering, and heal the
wanton division.
A greater power to intervene, changing wind
and tide,
The spark that can ignite again the
unquenchable fire inside.
Yet Baba Yaga lingers by her dwindling fire's
glow,
Seeking answers only ancient wandering
spirits know.
And somewhere past the smoke and ash, beyond
the darkened sky,
She hopes that God still hears the prayers
too weary now to cry.
The embers whisper softly through the
drifting smoke and haze,
Remembering brighter nights and wild untamed
days.
Though Orcs may stalk the forest and darken
earth and sky,
Though sleepless nights bring weary tears and
leave her asking why,
Beyond the smoke a thousand hearts still tend
the sacred flame,
And those who walk beside her quietly speak
her name.
For deep within the ashes, beneath
exhaustion's crushing weight,
There sleeps the fire of the wild one whom
darkness cannot break.
The spark awaits its destined hour, the
turning of the tide,
To rise again in splendor with the untamed
fire inside.
Written By: Alan.Clark@WW1POET (June 2026)
