In the darkened swamp where shadows creep,
Where whispers linger and the willows weep,
We were left alone beneath the moona cold gaze,
In misty depths, within the witcha maze.

Through moss and mire, she led our way,
A shadowed guide, both fierce and gray,
Her whispers filled the moonlit air,
And we, her daughters, learned to fare.

The witch, with eyes like embers bright,
Taught us her craft in dead of night,
With words that wound and hands that heal,
She wove her magic, strangely unreal.

Her voice was soft, yet sharp as thorns,
And though she warned of dangers worn,
We skipped through mist, so wild and free,
Not knowing the peril we couldna see.

My sister, my soul, you were the flame,
The joy that lifted me, never the same,
A heart unshaken, bold and bright,
A love untouched by the darkest night.

Time, like snakes that coil and wind,
Slithered in shadows, cruel and kind,
With every flicker, it drew its line,
Until it claimed what once was mine.

The world grew quiet, cold, and still,
The witcha whispers lost their will,
I began to spill.

Now, I wander where we once stood,
In the heart of that swamp, misunderstood,
And though the world can be lonely and cold,
Your memory, dear sister, will never grow old.

Penned by my hand on the 14th of Miraman, in the year 964 AF.