By | 1 March 2018

Folks say they do not live there
Anymore, witches stitching
Rag figures of souls to slay,
Or warlocks brewing potions
Of bark and root three moons
Before Jesus-God lies cold
On a slab of stone.

They say they have grown weary
Of chanting the same old incantations,
Casting the same spells over loves
Lost or betrayed, claiming justice
For the helpless and oppressed,
Or setting our small worlds back
On their proper tilt and turn.

They say they have their own lives
To live, burdens to bear: fields
To till, seeds to sow, waterjars
To fill, and sons and daughters
To tend and teach mysteries
Of blood and bone, earth and sky,
Wind, water and fire.

Folks say when you first set foot
On the shores of Siquijor
That those you seek do not live
There anymore, but if you truly ache
For righteous remedy, you might linger
For a night: one might fly by
With a magic brew for you.

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